Of Soul, Life, and Society
by KCS
Summary: Immediately post-EMPT. While slowly trying to re-adjust to a post-Hiatus life together, Holmes and Watson are engaged upon their very first case since the Return, putting the duo back on the investigative scene for the first time in three years.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **As always, I own nothing!

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Robert Blair (1699–1746) 

Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul!  
Sweetener of life! and solder of society!

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"Watson, what in heaven's name have you GOT in this trunk, anyhow?" Sherlock Holmes gasped, struggling to hoist the offending article of furniture up the steps. 

"Books, naturally," I answered breathlessly, straining to lift the other end of the trunk.

"_Books_?" my companion demanded, finally reaching the landing and slamming his end of the thing down on the carpet, "do you mean to tell me that I have been killing myself carrying up these stairs a trunkful of your ridiculously romanticized memoirs?"

"To say 'killing myself' is probably a slightly ridiculous statement that might _belong_ in one of said memoirs, Holmes," I retorted.

He gave a very undignified snort, but I could see that he was struggling not to grin at my indignation. Three years of absence, and we still were having the same age-old arguments!

"And besides," I went on, shoving the trunk toward my bedroom and calling over my shoulder to him, "those 'ridiculously romantic' stories were all published _after_ your supposed death in '91. _Therefore_," I gave the box a final shove and then turned round again, "therefore, am I safe in deducing that you actually _read_ them at some point during your absence?"

"Only to reassure myself that your florid writing style had not changed after I died," Holmes retorted, realizing I had caught him in a corner – he _had_ read them, I knew.

But I winced at my friend's choice of words.

"Holmes, you simply must stop saying that!"

"Saying what? How much more do you have downstairs?"

"Just a few more boxes – only one more of books. And you simply have to stop referring to your hiatus as _dying_. I mean it, really."

"Really what?" he cried defensively.

"You cannot just be walking down Savile Row like we were last night and saying at the top of your voice, 'After my death three years ago, I did thus and so…'. People were staring at us something dreadful last evening!" I said, reaching the bottom of the stairs.

At the time of which I speak, Holmes had shocked the entire world – notwithstanding _me_ – upon his miraculous return to London just over a fortnight ago.

He had been engaged after his return and the subsequent arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran with some affair in the foreign office involving his brother and the government – I suspected government involvement in his three-year absence, judging from the secrecy his reports to them were given under.

And as for me, I had been trying my best to keep up my good-sized practice in the hopes of selling the thing and moving back in with Sherlock Holmes, who had lost no time in begging me to make the transition as quickly as possible.

But every waking moment I had that I did not spend in my consulting room I had been spending at Baker Street – even after two weeks, the thrill of having my dearest friend back from the very grave itself had not yet lost its novelty.

And today, at last, I was moving back into those dear old rooms – I had closed the papers on my practice only that morning to a polite, sharp young doctor named Verner, and now I was nearly done moving my things into my old bedroom.

But at the moment, I was remonstrating with Holmes for his insistence in terming his absence to be his 'death', as he had done in public already more than once, to my mortification.

Sherlock Holmes jumped the last three steps to the hall and landed with a loud thud beside me, throwing back his head and laughing outright at my last statement.

"Are you embarrassed of me, Watson?" he chortled, picking up two boxes from the stack in the entranceway.

"Of Sherlock Holmes, no. Of walking about London with a detective who still insists he is dead, yes!"

We both laughed then as I bent to pick up another box from the pile, wincing slightly as my leg protested the strain – this late April day had been pouring down rain in absolute sheets and I was feeling cold and achy all over, but especially in the limb where that confounded Jezail bullet still rested.

And the fact that I had spent the better part of the afternoon moving the rest of my things back into Baker Street had not done much to alleviate the pain.

"Leave them, Watson," I heard Holmes call from already halfway up the seventeen steps.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Leave the heavy ones, old chap. I'll be back down in a minute."

He disappeared around the bend of the staircase, heading up the next flight up to my bedroom, leaving me staring after him.

One change I had noticed in Holmes since his return from – for lack of a better way of putting it, his return from the dead – was that he was far more attentive to others than before his hiatus. A change which I very much welcomed from the colder, more aloof exterior he had kept up so guardedly when we first met.

Something had happened to him during that three-year absence to soften that cold façade. I marveled at the change, very pleasantly surprised, for he seemed so much happier in general now that he had in those early years. But I shook myself out of those philosophical musings.

I was not about to allow him to move my entire stock of possessions all the way up there alone, aching leg or no aching leg. Ignoring the painful protests of the injured limb, I hauled two more boxes up into my arms and staggered up the steps with them.

"Umf – Watson!"

I had run straight into him, unable to see where I was going over the stack of boxes, and the jolt as I stumbled sent a dull throbbing pain through my ankle, and I should have dropped the crates had Holmes not grabbed them from me.

"Your innate stubbornness has not changed in three years, Watson!" he said, his sharp grey eyes barely visible over the top box, fixed on me with a warning glare.

"Nor have your powers of perception, Holmes. Bravo," I shot back at him, returning the dark look.

He snickered at my sarcasm and trotted back up the steps with my things.

"How many more have you got, Watson?" he bellowed from my bedroom. I peered down into the hall.

"Just three more, and two of those are for the sitting room," I called back.

I heard a muttered exclamation of gratefulness and I smiled, limping slightly back down the steps.

Ten minutes later, I was busily engaged in unpacking my journals from one of the boxes in the sitting room, and Holmes was sweeping things off my desk and half the shelves right and left, scattering papers everywhere and sending knickknacks rolling to all remote parts of the room, where they met any resistance with a resounding crash.

I stared in amusement as a water glass rolled all the way into his bedroom, casting rainbows of light dancing everywhere when he knocked it off the table.

"I should have thought to do this before now, Watson," he apologized, tossing a large scrapbook toward the couch – he missed, and the thing nearly went into the fire. I assured him that it was of no consequence, trying not to laugh at the small tornado he was stirring up in the little sitting room.

How much I had missed this! Not necessarily having to dodge – good gracious! – as he flung the mismatched pieces of a chess set onto his own desk behind me, but I had so missed all the just pure fun we used to have in these rooms before my marriage, and occasionally after it.

I jumped and cringed as there was a crash behind me, and I heard Holmes swearing violently.

"Holmes?"

"Watson, how much do you think Mrs. Hudson will add to our rent this month for the cost of a large china teapot?"

I threw back my head and laughed at his panic-stricken face.

"Well, if I remember correctly, Holmes," I chortled, "when you shattered the last one on that Algernon chap's head in that banknote forgery case in '89, I believe she threatened eviction!"

Holmes moaned dismally.

"It is a good thing for you I just sold my practice – I suppose I shall just have to replace the thing until your first case comes along!" I said, grinning at him and beginning to shelve my journals on my old desk.

Just then we heard the footsteps of our inestimable landlady approaching the sitting room door and I glanced at Holmes, who was now bordering on panic. He hastily threw an afghan under the table to cover the remains of the teapot and seated himself on the couch casually as she knocked. I stifled my laughter and hid my red face by shelving another stack of books.

"Come in!" he called in a perfectly normal, cool tone of voice.

"Mr. Holmes?" the good lady asked upon entering.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson?"

"You have a visitor, Mr. Holmes, a Mr. Eckerton. Here is his card, sir."

"A client, Mrs. Hudson?" I asked, a growing excitement rising in me.

"I believe so, Doctor," the woman said to me. My gaze met Holmes's, and he raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"Well of course! What are we waiting for?" I cried, fumbling excitedly round for a pencil and a blank journal.

Holmes laughed at my exuberance and instructed Mrs. Hudson to show up our guest. I was scrambling under the desk for the pencil, which had rolled away from me just out of reach, when I heard him clap his hands in glee and cavort about the room, no doubt as eager as I for this new case – the first since his return.

But the sudden noise was so loud that it startled me and my head jerked up - straight into the bottom of the desk, eliciting a yelp of pain from my lips.

"You all right, Watson?"

"I suppose so," I sighed, retrieving the pencil and slowly getting to my feet, rubbing the sore spot on the top of my head gingerly.

I could see by the look on his face that he was trying to do the polite thing and not laugh at my misfortune, and I saved him the trouble by laughing at myself.

Smirking, he sprang up and grabbed his oldest pipe, stuffing it with tobacco from the slipper on the mantel – I absently wondered if anyone had thought to replace it after three years – his long fingers twitching with earnestness, so eager was he to attach his formidable mind to this new problem.

I was scarce less excited, and it must have showed upon my face, for Holmes glanced at me and his mouth twisted in a fond grin.

"Do sit still, Watson – you're fairly _bouncing_ and that might seem rather odd to our client," he teased me gently.

I sent him a diffident glare and then we heard a quiet rap on the door.

"Well, old fellow? Ready for our very first case together after my _death_?"

"Holmes, for heaven's sake!"

"Ahem, yes. Well. Come in, Mr. Eckerton!"

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**_To be continued...please review!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Just to let all you readers know, this is not going to be a very dramatic, violent fic like _A Brother Noble_ - this is more of a mental struggle than a physical one ****(the psychologist in me coming out, I suppose).**

**But that's not to say there _won't_ be angst and action at some point - you know me! Hope you enjoy it anyway!**

**_KCS_**

* * *

After Holmes's raised invitation, the sitting room door opened to reveal our visitor.

James Eckerton was a slender, clear-featured, blond young fellow, not older than five-and twenty, dressed sharply in a smart black frock-coat and trousers. He carried a gold-tipped walking cane and a top hat in his right hand, switching the articles over to his left as he extended the right to Sherlock Holmes.

"How do you do, Mr. Holmes. I must apologize for intruding upon you without an appointment, but I am very dreadfully worried," the young man said in a cultured accent that spoke of good training.

"No apologies are necessary, Mr. Eckerton. My friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

"How do you do, Doctor."

"Mr. Eckerton," I replied, shaking the proffered hand. I was thrilled beyond measure to hear once again that introduction, 'my friend and colleague' – one that I had not heard in many years.

I reseated myself in my old chair, and Holmes motioned Eckerton to the couch. Then my friend seated himself, cross-legged, in his own chair, steepling his fingers together and fixing Eckerton with his undivided attention.

"I do not suppose you have heard of me, Mr. Holmes – but I certainly have heard of you, sir, and I was as thrilled as the rest of the world to learn that you had indeed returned to life, so to speak," the man said.

I noticed, as of old, that appealing to Holmes's vanity was always the fastest way to get him to warm to a client. Now was no exception.

"Thank you, Mr. Eckerton. And although I must admit to never having heard your name before tonight, I can still tell that you are left-handed, extremely fastidious in personal nature but occasionally absentminded, and that you have some sort of clerical or office job. Beyond that, I know nothing whatever about you. Shall we rectify that fact, Mr. Eckerton?"

The young man was staring at my friend with surprise mingled with admiration.

"The Doctor's stories are not fictionalized as I had at first thought, Mr. Holmes. You are correct in every particular."

Tweaking my writing – another way to ingratiate one's self with Sherlock Holmes!

Yet somehow I did not take the man's words as a criticism; he struck me as merely being perfectly honest. I could not put my finger on why, but I liked the fellow instantly.

"At the risk of sounding like a clueless client in one of your adventures, gentlemen, I have to say I should like to know how you deduced those things, Mr. Holmes," Eckerton said, a small grin lighting up his previously solemn face.

"Watson?" Holmes eyed me to see if I was following his reasoning. I moaned inwardly, not ready for a brain game with my friend this late in the day. But, as I always had done, I gave it a game shot anyhow.

"Well, the chain on your pocket-watch is leading to your left pocket instead of your right, Mr. Eckerton, so that would be the clue of the handedness," I said timidly, looking at Holmes for confirmation.

"Ah, of course," the young man replied, glancing down at his waistcoat.

"However, I must confess to being at a loss as to the other points," I went on, scribbling them down in my journal and waiting for Holmes to twit me about my slowness. To my immense relief, he did nothing of the kind and went on to explain his tricks to Eckerton.

"Your fastidiousness is evidenced by your boots, Mr. Eckerton. While moving Watson's boxes in today we both tracked in an enormous amount of mud from the very wet out-of-doors into the hall and entryway. However, there is not a speck of mud on your shoes – therefore, you must have stopped at the bottom of the stairs to clean them before coming up. Very fastidious."

"Ah, I see. And the occasional absent-mindedness?"

"It has been pouring down rain all day long, Mr. Eckerton, and you are not carrying an umbrella."

"I might have left it in the hall, Mr. Holmes," the man replied, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Then you should have left your stick as well."

"Not if the umbrella were dripping wet."

"No, no, it will not do, Mr. Eckerton, for your top hat is thoroughly soaked – it would be no more than damp had it been covered by an umbrella."

I grinned at the young man's admiring face.

"And the job, Mr. Holmes?"

"The simple fact that you are obviously a highly educated man and that usually indicates a fairly good employment, as is corroborated by your smart appearance; coupled with the creases in your otherwise immaculate shirt-cuffs which bespeak of hours at a table, perhaps in writing."

"You are indeed as sharp as the Doctor has portrayed you, Mr. Holmes. Yes, I work in one of the offices at the Bank of England, the Regent Street branch. Handling paperwork and accounting, and so on - Executive Assistant to the manager of that branch."

I was surprised at that news, and made the deduction for myself that the man was either obviously brilliant or else he had the right connections, to land a job like that at the young age he was.

"Ah. Well then, Mr. Eckerton, please do tell us why you have come out on such a dreadful evening to ask for my assistance," Holmes said, settling back in his chair and fixing his sharp grey eyes on the man on the couch.

"Mr. Holmes, I came to you because I had read of you, sir, and read that you took on cases that were rather unusual – my case is rather unusual. But more than that, it is an absolute emergency and I beg of you to accept it even if it does not meet the outré standards you are so fond of," the young man said, his eyes clouding over with a genuine worry.

Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"Pray lay the facts before me at once, Mr. Eckerton."

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. Two days ago, my fiancée, Anne Stewart, disappeared."

I started, looking up from my scribbling. Eckerton's pale face had gone a shade paler as he spoke, and I could see that he was hard put to keep from showing what must have been near panic.

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. Completely vanished – that is what is so unusual about the case."

"I am all attention, Mr. Eckerton. Pray omit no detail," my friend declared, leaning forward intently.

"Annie was traveling on the direct train from Brighton to London, Mr. Holmes. It is not a long journey, as I am sure you know. She had been taking a weekend holiday and I know that she was on the train – the police said the conductor had punched her ticket and remembered her. She's a very lovely girl, Mr. Holmes – I am sure he would remember her."

I felt dreadfully sorry for the poor chap as he went on in his tale.

"Annie _was_ on the train, Mr. Holmes. But sometime during that three-hour ride, she disappeared completely. Utterly vanished."

"Was taken from the train?"

"I suppose that must be so, Mr. Holmes, but the train is a direct – it never stopped once from Brighton to London!" the man cried, his face flushing with agitation.

"Are you certain no one stopped it with the emergency brake?" Holmes asked, his gaze narrowing.

"Quite certain, Mr. Holmes. I was to meet Annie at the station, and when she did not emerge from the train I started – well, started raising quite a fuss. I was rather worried, you know," Eckerton said, his honest face flushing with embarrassment.

"I do not blame you," I interjected for the first time, my heart going out to the young fellow.

"I assume the police were notified?"

"Yes, of course, Mr. Holmes. But they have been unable to give me any encouraging news."

I could see that this case had indeed interested my companion – Holmes got up and began to pace back and forth in front of the windows. Eckerton's face had gone dead white once more, and he was biting his lower lip in worry.

"A girl missing from a train that never stopped," Holmes muttered, his brow wrinkling in thought.

"Mr. Holmes, I am going half out of my mind with worry – I mean, a very attractive single girl, completely defenseless, Mr. Holmes! Heaven only knows what could be happening –"

"Easy, Mr. Eckerton," I said, moving over to place a soothing hand on his shoulder, "you must keep your nerve, sir. You have done splendidly so far, and you must not give up hope."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said shakily, slumping back against the cushions, watching Holmes's nervous pacing without saying another word.

"Mr. Eckerton," I said, seeing that Holmes was furiously smoking that infernal pipe as if he were trying to set himself afire – a sure sign that he was thinking deeply and so would be deaf to anything we said, "do you have a picture of your fiancée?"

"Yes, Doctor. I brought her picture and a card with her address on it with me for you both to keep hold of. And I talked to a police inspector – Gregson, I believe his name was – and asked him if I could bring the information about the case to you, but he refused to give it to me."

I nodded knowingly, taking the picture that the young fellow had extracted carefully from his wallet. Anne Stewart was indeed, as he had said, a lovely girl.

"I have to say, Doctor, that your portrayal of the Inspector in the _Strand_ was also rather accurate," Eckerton said dryly, a little of his former good humor returning.

I laughed at this, and then Sherlock Holmes turned round to face us.

"I shall take your case, with pleasure, Mr. Eckerton. It does, as you said, appear to be most unique. Now, how may I contact you?"

"Your landlady gave you my card, I believe? I can be reached at that address in the mornings and evenings as well as the weekends. Each weekday I am at my work in Regent Street."

"Of course. I shall contact you as soon as I have any information, Mr. Eckerton," Holmes said, shaking the man's hand and then unceremoniously vanishing into his bedroom, leaving our client staring at me in some little amusement.

I chuckled as I showed the man to the door. "As a reader of my 'romantic fiction,' Mr. Eckerton, I am sure you are not offended by Mr. Holmes's behavior?" I asked, handing the man his hat and stick from where he had placed them on the sideboard.

"Not at all, Doctor. Thank you very much, both of you," Eckerton said, his sad eyes brightening slightly. He turned to leave, and a moment later I heard Mrs. Hudson showing the poor fellow out.

I turned back and re-entered the sitting room, wincing as another twinge went through my bad leg. Thank heaven it was late, and I was going to waste no time in going to bed. Holmes would probably spend the rest of the evening sitting up and smoking – I vaguely wondered if I should be able to sleep well if he started that confounded violin up at all hours of the night.

I stacked the rest of my books on the desk and covered a yawn with my hand. I would finish tomorrow – I was simply too tired tonight.

I got up stiffly and was about to head toward the door when Sherlock Holmes burst out of his bedroom, fully dressed, carrying his hat and gloves.

"Coming, Watson?" he asked, snatching his coat from the rack and yanking it on.

"Coming where?" I asked dismally, not at all thrilled with the idea of venturing out in such inclement conditions.

"To the police station, of course! I need that abduction information – there has to be a link somewhere, and I shall find it before the night is over!" he cried, clapping his hands excitedly.

"Holmes, would you be dreadfully offended if I declined just this once?" I asked a little hesitantly – I really was extremely tired and not feeling like my leg could stand a long trudge through the rain.

He made some acquiescing remark and turned to leave – but not before I had seen a little of that elation flee his eyes and a hurt of rejection replace it.

Leg or no leg, I had no wish to offend him, and I was about to get up and get my coat anyway, when he spun round and set off down the stairs.

"Don't wait up for me, Watson; I shall be late!" his voice floated back up the steps just before I heard the front door slam – with more than usual force.

With a weary sigh I dropped into my chair before the fireplace. My declining his offer to include me in the investigation had bothered him – had it always done so? How many things had changed in three years between us?

I did not at all like the idea that I was not remembering Holmes as well as I had always thought I did – this was not going to be as smooth a transition as I had anticipated, this moving back into Baker Street.

In fact, I now was feeling very, very uneasy – almost as if I were in unfamiliar surroundings. I half expected to be about to seat myself at the oaken desk in my consulting room and be scratching out prescriptions for hypochondriacal patients in the morning.

But no, I no longer had a practice – I no longer had a daily schedule – I no longer had a home of my own, a house all alone. And though I was completely and devoutly grateful for a kind Providence's returning my dearest friend to life, I was beginning to realize that we both had changed a good deal.

We were going to have to almost start over, not just in our lodgings, but in our friendship. It was turning out to be rather more of an effort than I had at first anticipated. And now, as I reflected, I almost did not want to go up to my old bedroom – I had not slept up there for over six years, other than occasional visits to Holmes during my early marriage.

It would take a while, I mused, for this flat to seem home to me – I had lived in Kensington for six years; just as long as I had lived in Baker Street with Holmes the six years before that. This was more of a drastic change than I realized.

And as I arose and began to climb the stairs to my little bedroom, the thought gave me no little unease.

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**_To be continued..._**


	3. Chapter 3

_Water. Trillions upon trillions of gallons of it._

_Crashing, pounding, cascading._

_It had to be the most magnificent waterfall I had ever seen in my life. Towering for hundreds of feet above and below the path upon which I was standing, the roaring crashing cacophony rang in my ears like the noise of a thousand steam engines all pounding in unison._

_I stood in awe of the colossal work of Nature and turned to my companion._

_"It certainly is magnificent, eh Watson?" he shouted over the noise of the Falls, peering carefully over the edge to the chasm below, and I agreed wholeheartedly._

_"John!' _

_I__ heard a voice from the path behind me, and I turned to look._

_And there she was, my own angelic Mary, her golden hair glistening with the spray of the Falls, her blue eyes dancing with merriment, the very picture of rosy health._

_"Mary!"_

_"Come along, John," she said with a laugh, taking my hand and tugging me along the path._

_I was ready to follow that angel anywhere, do anything for her – but wait._

_There was a reason I was not supposed to leave the Falls. What was it?_

_"Now, John! Come along!" my wife cried playfully, her lovely voice tinkling like a clear bell over the noise of the water. She tugged once more at my hand and I at last followed willingly._

_But what was the reason I was not supposed to leave? Was it really that important?_

_No, surely not. I was perfectly happy, at long last, in the company of that miraculously lovely creature standing in front of me. _

_I followed her down the path, reveling in her perfect beauty – but then I looked back._

_And saw to my horror that the companion I had left behind was now engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with another man – and they were both struggling dangerously close to the edge of the Falls._

_"No!"_

_I pulled my hand from Mary's and started back toward the two men, knowing that I had to help._

_"Wait, John!" she pleaded, catching hold of me once more._

_"I cannot wait, Mary!" I cried, jerking free, a sick feeling forming in my stomach as the men struggled fiercely on the edge of the narrow path._

_"After all this time, and you cannot stay for even a moment?" Her lovely blue eyes filled with tears, and my heart melted at the sight of it. I wanted so much to hold her – just once...just once more..._

_But I tore my gaze away from her and turned again – only just in time to see the two men go crashing over the edge of the path with a united terrified scream, tumbling, falling, two limp bodies turning over and over...down...down...into the crashing cauldron of water and foam below._

_"Dear Lord, please no!"_

I sat straight up in bed, breathing so hard I was nearly hyperventilating, tears running down my face, my stomach churning with a roiling, sickening nausea – but wait, I was not at the Reichenbach Falls, I was - I was in bed?

It had been a nightmare.

Holmes had not gone over the Falls.

And Mary had not come back to me.

I did not know which realization was causing the tears that had unconsciously started.

I tried desperately to control my breathing, still utterly terrified by the reality of the dream. I had not had such a vivid nightmare – especially _that _nightmare – in over a year – why now? On the first night I was back in Baker Street?

I was shivering all over with the very realistic remembrances that were still flashing through my mind, and I got up, hastily threw on a dressing gown and slippers, and headed for the door – I could not stay another moment in that bedroom, for it was pressing in upon me terrifyingly with its darkness.

At the sight of the cozy hall lamp below me, the blackness of the Reichenbach Falls and seeing Holmes's death and Mary's resurrection seemed to fade slightly, but the visions were still so very, very real. I sank down on the top step of the stairs, drawing my knees up to my chest and wrapping my arms round them. And then I buried my face and tried to get hold of myself, so shaken was I by that horrid dream.

I was trying desperately to stop the tears from rolling down my face, trying to calm my shaking nerves, and so engrossed was I in my battle for control that when I felt a tentative hand on my trembling shoulder I started violently, gasping in sudden fright.

"Easy, Watson – I am sorry, I did not mean to startle you so," I heard Holmes's voice beside me, quiet with concern.

I took a shuddering breath and looked up at him, and when he saw my face his eyes darkened with worry. He sat on the step beside me and looked at me.

"Did I – did I wake you, Holmes?" I asked, wishing to heaven that my voice were not trembling so.

"It is of no consequence, my dear fellow – though you did frighten me rather when I heard your cries from downstairs. I only just got back a few hours ago," he said gently. I flushed with embarrassment, but he stopped my apology with an upraised hand.

So I said nothing more, just sitting there hugging my knees, staring down the steps without seeing anything, still shaking all over from what I had been witness to in that nightmare.

"Watson, I am sorry," I heard Holmes say with a sigh beside me.

"For what?"

"This has all been very much of a shock to you – I – I should not have pushed you to move back in here so quickly," he said, his eyes downcast, "I should have realized that it would be rather much for your nerves."

"You think - sleeping in my old room was the cause of the dream?" I asked, the idea not having occurred to me before.

"I think it likely, Watson – the same thing has happened to me since I moved back into the flat," he said, his voice quiet with empathy.

I shuddered – I had no desire whatsoever to try and imagine what Sherlock Holmes's nightmares consisted of. I breathed in a long, shaking breath and let it out slowly, feeling slightly better in the knowledge that I was not alone in what I was feeling right now.

"How did you stop the nightmares from happening, Holmes?"

"I didn't, Watson – tonight was the first night I have been without one," he said, glancing at me with a look that I did not quite understand.

I was puzzled – was he implying that his nightmares had stopped with the knowledge that I was once again back in my room upstairs, prepared as I had always been in the past to fight his demons if necessary?

His face was as always a mask of calmness, only his eyes betraying his sympathy and his concern over my unusual nighttime disturbance.

The clock struck half-past three below us.

"Are you going to go back to bed, Watson?" he asked.

"No!" My breath quickened involuntarily at the thought, and he nodded understandingly.

"Why don't we go for a walk, then?"

I stared at him, my amazement for the moment drowning out my other emotions.

"A walk? At this hour?"

"Yes, it will clear your head of those frightening visions – and I shall tell you what I have discovered from Gregson about this case of Eckerton's. Hop to it, Watson – into your clothes and let us be off."

I closed my mouth, which was gaping open, as he grasped my arm and pulled me to my feet, gently shoving me in the direction of my bedroom.

"But, Holmes!"

"Ten minutes, Watson!" he called, already on his way into his own room.

I stared after him – a stroll about London at three-thirty in the morning? Even for _his_ irregular habits, that was unheard of!

But as I turned to re-enter my bedroom, my mouth turned upward in a small smile, the first shock of the horror of my dream dissipating somewhat at his behavior and the knowledge that his own nightmares had disappeared with my arrival in the house. Perhaps mine would cease as well soon.

But I realized with some ruefulness that Holmes had just inveigled me into taking a walk with him – the very thing that I had declined to do earlier in the evening!

I sighed and began to change into a warm set of clothes, for I could hear the wind outside. The rain appeared to have stopped, however, a fact for which I was grateful.

Ten minutes on the dot, I appeared outside Holmes's bedroom in the hall, still wondering why in the world I had agreed to this excursion. But I truly did not want to go back to sleep – not with that dreadful image still replaying in my mind's eye.

Holmes handed me my coat and hat without a word and we left the flat quietly so as to not awaken Mrs. Hudson. I turned my collar up against the wind and wished that my leg would cease that throbbing. Holmes stalked along the gaslit streets for several minutes in silence, and I was afraid to break into his thoughts.

I was surprised by the number of people that actually were up and about at four in the morning – early workers on their way to the docks, late revelers on their drunken ways back home, street lads looking for sleepy travelers to relieve them of their watches and so on – and the bracing air and unusual sights woke me up a little and banished some of that horrifying nightmare.

"You are, as always, Watson, the ideal companion," Holmes ventured at long last, throwing me a sideways glance, "that gift of silence is rather a unique one."

I said nothing, for some reason slightly uneasy in his company – I never had been before, why was it awkward now?

"At any rate, I saw Gregson just before he was about to leave for the evening. He was not overly thrilled that Eckerton had taken the case to me instead of leaving it in his not-so-capable hands."

I chuckled at that colossal understatement.

"He reluctantly gave me all the information about the Stewart girl's disappearance. And after three hours of searching all the crime reports for the last fortnight I found out something that is very highly suggestive, Watson."

I was trying to hide the fact that I was limping now – we had been out for nearly an hour and I was in considerable discomfort. My reply was slightly breathless, but my companion did not seem to notice.

"The Stewart woman was the _third_ young lady who has been abducted in the last nine days, from a moving train direct from some port of call to London."

I started. "_Three_ girls?"

"Three, Watson. Eckerton's fiancée was the third. That is highly suggestive of a connection."

"Indeed," I agreed breathlessly.

"The first recurring pattern, besides the fact that they were all young women, is the fact that all three trains were direct," my companion went on, "and the second point is that all three were abducted when en route _to_ London, not going _from_ it."

"You believe that is significant?"

"It is a fact to remember, at the very least. The first girl, Violet Harwicke, was on the train from Canterbury to London, and the second, a lady named Elizabeth Walsh, was on her way from Dover. I have been looking over the information Gregson had about the girls, and I do not think I can get any further data until I speak with the women's families."

"Have you – any theories?" I asked, attempting to disguise the fact that I was now very out of breath.

"I have six, actually, each of which is equally plausible at the present time. And none of them are very pleasant thoughts for the girls involved," he said, his voice sobering.

For a moment neither of us said anything, the chilling thought freezing our minds as well as the weather was doing to our bodies. Then so suddenly that it startled me, Holmes stopped and grasped my arm.

"Watson, why did you not tell me we were walking rather too fast?" he asked – he had heard the uneven sound of my steps upon the pavement.

"Because – you were explaining a theory, Holmes," I gasped, very much relieved now that I could catch my breath and take some weight off my leg.

"Well, for heaven's sake, you could have interrupted me! Did you think I would not care to know that you were in pain?"

I was startled by his defensive tone of voice – so unlike what I had remembered of him.

"No, it is not that, Holmes," I said hastily, "I – I just did not want to bother you, that's all."

"You will _never_ bother me, Watson," he said, scowling blackly at me.

"I shall remind you of that – the next time you are irritated when I pester you about eating regular meals," I said, trying to ease the tension that had suddenly sprung up between us like an invisible wall.

I was very, very much relieved to see him laugh and then slip his arm through mine and turn our steps homeward.

I breathed a sigh of relief as the matter was left and sighed a little ruefully with the knowledge that we were not just going to be able to drop in where we left off three years ago. This was not going to be an easy path back to normalcy.

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**_To be continued...thanks for reading!_**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: A great big thank-you to Protector of the Gray Fortress for sending me the whole train plot bunny and for her continued help in developing the idea. You people had better review her fic _Drifting Sands_, or I shall not post another chapter for a week! I mean it!**

**_KCS_**

* * *

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I said as the woman finished laying out our breakfast.

"You're quite welcome, Doctor," the woman said, practically beaming, "it is a real pleasure to have a tenant who appreciates good cooking!" This was accompanied by a meaningful glare at Sherlock Holmes, who was pacing up and down by the fireplace, smoking yet again.

The worthy lady left the room in a huff when Holmes ignored her, albeit unintentionally, and I poured myself a cup of coffee, hoping that it was extremely strong. I was already wishing I could return to bed.

"Holmes, the food is getting cold," I said, keeping the irritation out of my voice with an effort. Had he really always smoked that much? Even before breakfast?

He started, for obviously my words had jolted him out of his reverie, and set the pipe on the mantle before seating himself with me at the table.

"Are you game for a little legwork this morning, Watson?" he asked, a little timidly I thought. Poor chap, he must be feeling as nervous about this whole affair as I was.

"Certainly," I replied, stirring more sugar into the coffee – it _was_ rather strong.

I saw a look of intense relief cross his sharp features just before he dropped that cold mask of professionalism over them once more.

Then, and only then, did he attack his food with alacrity.

Four cups of coffee later, I was feeling slightly more awake, and the terror of the night before had completely vanished, for which I was grateful. But the rain that had drenched the city yesterday had started up once more, and so we took a cab to our first destination – another fact for which I was grateful.

"There must be some connection among those three girls, Watson," my companion muttered as we splashed along the streets, "something links those three disappearances. The coincidence is too monstrous to be just a mere coincidence."

"What exactly did Gregson tell you about the cases?"

"Nothing of importance. Each girl was in her early twenties and was traveling alone back from a holiday. Which brings up the interesting point, how would their abductors know they were on holiday?"

I frowned, puzzled as well by the fact.

"And how would they know which train they had boarded?" I asked.

"Exactly, Watson. This indicates that the girls had been watched for a considerable time before they were abducted."

I turned sick at the ghastly thought. "That is perfectly dreadful, Holmes."

His face clouded over. "Yes, Watson. I pray that the most obvious explanation is not the one that is the truth."

I echoed his sentiments devoutly – and felt a sharp pang of sympathy for our poor client.

"But cheer up, Watson – for if this criminal wanted young women merely for that vulgar purpose, then there are many easier ways to get them than abducting them from a moving train," Holmes went on, peering out at the rain-swept streets.

That was true – I sincerely hoped my companion was correct, for our client's sake at least.

Twenty minutes later, we had arrived at the spacious town-house belonging to the family of Violet Harwicke and were told to await the girl's mother in a large and lavishly furnished drawing room.

"Judging from this room, Holmes, ransom might very well be the motive for the abductions," I remarked as we stood there, looking at the ornate golden fixtures upon the rich tapestry-covered walls.

"The thought _had _crossed my mind, Watson," he replied dryly.

I was silent, not knowing if he were teasing me or reverting to his intense, aloof self while on a case. He sent me a sideways look and settled the matter for me.

"I was only jesting with you, Watson," said he, shifting his weight uneasily to the other foot, "my apologies."

I was about to tell him none were necessary, that I was behaving like a too-sensitive schoolboy, but the door opened to admit the lady's mother – a tall, dignified woman of about fifty years, her graying hair coiffed immaculately and deporting herself with incredible poise.

"Mr. Holmes, I am very pleased to make your acquaintance – all London was rather surprised to learn that you had not died three years ago," the woman said directly as she motioned us to several red plush chairs.

"I thank you, madam. I would assume you know that I am here in an official capacity?"

"I had anticipated as much. Did my husband engage your services?"

"No, madam. I am working for another client, but I believe that the disappearance of my client's fiancée is directly linked with the unfortunate vanishing of your own daughter, Mrs. Harwicke."

The woman's face paled, but she kept her composure admirably.

"If I can be of help, then you may ask what you will, Mr. Holmes. Violet has been gone without word for a week now, and I will freely admit that I am extremely worried."

"I shall try to be brief, madam, for your sake. Can you tell me the circumstances of your actions when your daughter did not return from her holiday?"

I pulled out my journal and began to write as Holmes interviewed the woman. I was very much impressed, and very pleasantly surprised, by his tact, a quality he had been sadly lacking in during our very early cases.

The lady told us that they had not thought much about the daughter's not showing up at home – she was twenty-four, after all, and had a life of her own. Her parents had assumed she had gone to a friend's or such, and it was not until the next morning that they had decided ought was amiss.

"Violet is an extremely conscientious girl, Mr. Holmes, and usually when she decides to spend the evening with a friend she wires us or sends a message. When we had heard nothing the next morning, we decided to notify the police. They have to date only been able to inform us that she was indeed on the train from Canterbury and mysteriously disappeared sometime between there and London," the lady finished, her face clouding with worry.

"Thank you, my lady. Now, if you could furnish me with a list of your daughter's friends?" Holmes asked, glancing at me to make sure I was writing them down.

"She has a good circle of acquaintances, Mr. Holmes, but only a few close friends. She spends the majority of her free time with her fiancée, you understand," the woman said, her eyes warming at the statement.

Holmes started. "Your daughter is engaged, then?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. To a young clerk who works in the City Bank – quite a wonderful young man, considerate and polite. I entirely approve, and so does my husband. Mr. Holmes?"

I glanced up, to see that Holmes was staring into space, deep in thought. I looked back at what I had written, and then I stiffened as well. That was something else the girls had in common – they were both engaged!

I was rather proud of my little perception, but I kept my mouth closed, knowing that undoubtedly the thought had already occurred to Holmes. He finally snapped out of his musing and turned his attention back to Mrs. Harwicke.

"I do apologize, madam. Pray give me the name and address of this young fellow as well as any of your daughter's close friends."

I scribbled busily as the lady told us of the fiancée, who was named Victor Huntingdon and who lived in the Kensington district – not far from my old home, actually – and also jotted down the names of the girl's three closest friends for future reference.

That being done, Holmes stood and wished the lady good day, promising after her worried pleas to let her know if we made any progress in locating the missing girls. We then exited into the street.

The rain was coming down in sheets, at an almost horizontal angle, making the umbrellas we wielded of virtually no effect as shields against the torrent. Not a cab was in sight, having picked up nearly every other person on the street, and so we were forced to walk. I was rather glad it was only a half-mile trudge to the next address, for this weather was simply miserable, and my mood was dropping rapidly to match it.

"How's your leg holding up, old chap?" Holmes raised his voice against the deluge to ask.

"Fine, Holmes," I returned, "but I shall be glad to get out of this downpour!"

A slew of water came suddenly sloshing down from a nearby gutterspout, drenching both of us from head to foot, and I laughed as Holmes glared and swore at the offending gutter as if it were an animate object and could hear his vehemence.

After sending me a scathing look, upon which I promptly and innocently erased the smile from my face, he also began to laugh; and the sound relaxed me not a little. This was more like the old days.

My amusement was fast fading away with my body warmth, however, as we fought our way through the rain, and I was growing thoroughly chilly, being very, very glad to see the sign for the street we wanted looming out of the rain. Within five more minutes we were ringing the bell of yet another lovely old suburban house.

"It does not appear as though anyone were home," I remarked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

"Bravo, Doctor – a truly stunning deduction!"

This time I did not have to wonder if he were teasing, and I laughed aloud.

Just then we saw a cab sloshing leisurely through the pelting rain, looking for passengers. And at the same time, we heard footsteps approaching the door.

I muttered something about cursed luck, and Holmes snorted as the door opened to reveal a maid in a trim starched uniform.

"Could you tell me if either Mr. or Mrs. Walsh is at home, miss?" Holmes asked.

"I'm sorry sir, but the master and missus are both away until evening, sir," the girl replied, trying to shield herself from the rain that was sweeping in.

"They will be back this evening, then?"

"Yes, sir. At least the missus will be."

"Thank you very much. May I leave my card, and ask your mistress if I may call this evening around eight-thirty?"

"Very good, sir," the girl replied, dropping a quick curtsey and taking Holmes's card, then eagerly shutting the door against the driving rain.

"Well, that was a waste of time and energy," my companion muttered, in a thoroughly bad temper now. Before I could reply he had taken off sprinting at top speed down the street after the cab, which was nearing the corner now, the ends of his muffler flapping in the wind like a banner behind him.

He looked altogether comical, and I would swear that the cabbie was laughing as he turned round and pulled up beside me after Holmes had flagged him down – _I_ was certainly not about to run in such an undignified fashion down the sidewalk!

I climbed up into the vehicle, and Holmes directed the cabbie back to Baker Street and then settled back with a growl of impatience.

"I needed that data, Watson," he grumbled, "I cannot form theories until I know all the facts about all three girls."

"Would you like me to read back to you what the Harwicke woman said about her daughter?"

"No, no, no, Watson. The girl's actual abduction is a mere incident. The crux of the matter is still eluding me. Why three girls, why three single girls, off of a moving train? There are other, much easier and less dangerous ways, of abduction. Why a moving train? And why those three girls?"

He relapsed into silence, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wall of the cab until it came close to grating on my nerves. I had forgotten some of his less dangerous, but more annoying, habits – that being one of them. I heaved a sigh of relief when we arrived back at Baker Street once more.

It was turning out already to be rather a long, dreary day.

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**_To be continued...thanks to all you who have been reviewing! Please keep doing so!_**


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Hudson brought us up a steaming pot of tea (I had paid for the broken one) and a light luncheon, for which I at least was very grateful; and after divesting myself of my soaked clothing and donning a dressing gown, I rejoined Holmes in the sitting room, where I began to finish my unpacking as he destroyed his desk and our file cabinet looking for his map of the greater London area.

As a large file of papers came whizzing past my head to slam up against the wall, I ventured a mild remonstrance and was met with a growl – I doubt if my comrade even heard me. But instead of being irritated, I smiled tolerantly – this was one of his habits that, although it could get extremely annoying at times, was a bit of badly needed comic relief once in a while.

"Watson, I can't find it!" His voice was that of a petulant child.

"Can't find what?" I asked, stacking a pile of papers onto Holmes's chair so that I could move a box.

"That map I made back in '88 when we were engaged to find that disappearing train in Essex - remember, Watson? I had marked on it all the train lines from London to every part of the surrounding country, and kept it because I _knew_ we would need it again someday!"

I wrinkled my forehead, trying to recall the case in question. Then I remembered. And I thought I knew the location of the map.

"Did you check the umbrella case down in the hall, Holmes?"

He whirled and looked at me, dropping a stack of at least twenty files. I cringed as five months' worth of organizing scattered everywhere all over the carpet.

"The _what_?"

"You always were rolling up those maps of yours and stuffing them in the umbrella stand, Holmes – said you did not want to fold them and get them wrinkled," I replied, sitting back on my heels to look up at him.

"I _did_?"

"Yes, you _did_," I retorted, laughing at his incredulous face, "more than once you snapped at me for putting a wet umbrella in with your precious maps!"

Holmes leapt over the couch and flung open the sitting room door, pounding down the seventeen steps two at a time. I laughed at his enthusiasm and turned back to my unpacking, and by the time I heard his exclamation of triumph from downstairs, I was nearly finished.

I lifted the final item from my last trunk, a picture of my wife and me, and held it for a moment, looking at it rather sadly as I crouched there against the desk. Mary's health had been so poor that we had taken an extensive vacation in Scotland a few months before her death, and while on holiday we had had this photograph taken – and I was so very glad now, for it was the only one I had of her.

The dream of the previous night came back to me with a vengeance as I remembered. The photograph's stark black-and-whiteness paled in comparison to the vivid picture I had seen last night, and my eyes filled once more with unbidden tears.

Upon my leaving my house in Kensington, I had also left behind every memory associated with the place and my marriage, both pleasant and painful. This one picture was all that remained now of that former life. I had passed over the river and burnt the bridge - there was no going back now.

"Watson! You were right! I found it – you are becoming quite indispensable, old chap!"

Holmes's animated voice broke violently into my memories, and I hastily set the photograph down on my desk and turned to face him, hoping my face did not betray my feelings.

Holmes had hastily thrown the teapot and cups to the side and spread the map on the table, now using the sugar bowl and milk pitcher to weight the thing down to prevent its rolling up on him.

"Hah! Hand me my lens, will you, Watson?" he said with an exclamation of satisfaction, his sharp features bent close over the map.

I quickly dashed the last remaining tear from the corner of my eye and rummaged through his desk drawer, at last finding the elusive magnifying glass. I walked over to the table and held it out to him – only to realize that my hand was shaking.

I hastily set the lens down upon the map, but it was too late – he had seen the tremor, and he dropped the pencil he was scribbling with and looked up at me.

"Watson? Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, Holmes," I responded, most definitely not wanting to dredge all those feelings up once more and knowing that if I did, it would make Holmes extremely uncomfortable.

"You are not, Watson – what's the matter?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Holmes!" I said with more near-panicked vehemence than I had meant to, taking a step backward from him.

It was not that I did not trust him to listen – it was simply that once started I would not be able to stop, and I knew I would end up an embarrasingly emotional wreck by the time we were through.

But Holmes did not know the thoughts going through my troubled mind, and I could see the hurt in his eyes when I told him to basically leave me alone.

"As you wish," was his only comment, but he took the map and his lens off the table and vanished into his bedroom with them, shutting the door after him.

I felt like putting my fist through the wall, but I sat shakily down at my desk instead, staring morbidly at the photograph lying there. The pain of that loss six months ago was still very sharp, and I realized now that the joy of having Holmes return from the dead had only been a temporary antidote for the pain – a masking of the void. Now that things were starting to settle back to semi-normality, the uncertainty of this new life was actually starting to frighten me and my grief was being rehashed because of my distraught state.

I gently set the portrait upright on my desk and wondered if I should attempt an apology to Holmes, even though I had not intentionally meant to offend him. I realized at last that I did not have the nerve at the present moment, so strained was the relation between us – was this revamped partnership even going to work at all? Perhaps I should never have agreed to move back into Baker Street?

I slumped down in my chair, putting my head in the crook of my arm, realizing I was absolutely exhausted, what with the lack of sleep and the draining mental tension I was under. In that state, I was in no shape to make decisions one way or the other, for I was nowhere near close to thinking lucidly.

I let out my breath with a long, weary sigh, and lifted my head – to see Sherlock Holmes crouched in front of me, his face clouded with concern and a good deal of uncertainty.

"Watson, I – I am sorry if I was prying.. It is my business to be inquisitive, and – and I have trouble separating cases from people, you know that only too well," he said nervously, obviously more ill-at-ease than I had ever seen him.

"I did not mean to be rude, Holmes, forgive me," I said quietly, an odd calmness washing over me at the welcome words, though I knew the whole thing was entirely my fault, not his, "I just – need some time alone before I do anything else."

"I understand," he said, nodding – and it struck me that he probably _did_ understand, very much so; he was an isolated man himself. After throwing me a quick twitch of a smile, he vanished once more into his bedroom.

But this time, he left the door open.

I got up with a weary sigh, trying to ignore the protests from my leg, and grabbing a book from the shelf, I stretched out upon the couch to try to use the story as an escape, a time to relax and get my nerves under control.

As I began to read, the rain on the roof and the quiet drama of the story seemed to come together in a very peaceful sort of atmosphere, lulling my tense nerves into some semblance of calmness…

I must have fallen asleep, for when the clock struck seven the sound startled me out of my dozing and I jumped. The book that had fallen from my hands into my lap hit the floor with a thud as I looked round me in surprise.

Then I smiled, for I perceived that Holmes had built a large fire and thrown a blanket over me while I slept – and I was quite grateful for both comforts, for the howling storm outside was dropping the temperature rather rapidly.

The man himself was seated with his back toward me at the table once more, scribbling all over several sheets of paper – obviously working out some theory and oblivious to the world.

Or so I thought.

"How are you feeling, Watson?" I heard his voice float in my direction as I bent to pick up the book I had dropped.

"I rather needed that sleep, I do believe," I admitted, standing up and tossing the blanket over the back of the couch.

"You looked it," he replied, finally glancing up at me amidst his scribbling.

"Have you found out anything more, Holmes?"

"While you were out I contacted the train companies and found out which trains the girls would have been on and upon which rail they ran the days of their disappearances," he replied, motioning me to a seat beside him, "and I have plotted them on this map in red – see, here."

I sat down beside him and looked where his finger was pointing. There was one from Canterbury, one from Dover, and one from Brighton. I scrutinized the map carefully.

"How do you suppose they got off the trains, Holmes?"

My friend laid his lens down on the table and leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed with thought.

"It would not be difficult to get someone off a train _if_ the train were moving slowly enough up a hill or round a bend, or a combination of both, Watson. I have been looking at these train tracks, however, and it is impossible to see what opportunities might arise on the journey from merely looking at a map."

"Shall we be traveling the same routes ourselves?" I asked.

"At some point, yes, Watson. I shall just trouble you for your Bradshaw – we will see if there are trains on those tracks leaving in the morning sometime. Right now, we had best get ready to go back to that Walsh family's house."

Holmes rolled the map back up and stuffed it behind his violin case, then turned to me as I rather stiffly arose from the table.

"You do not have to come, Watson. It is purely a routine interview," he said, fidgeting with his cufflinks.

"I should be glad to go with you, Holmes," I replied quietly.

Once again I saw immense relief come over his face before he reverted back to his excited, investigative self.

"Come along, then! The game is afoot, Watson!"

I laughed delightedly, having not heard his pet phrase in what seemed like ages, and he returned my grin as he abruptly tossed my hat and umbrella at me, nearly stabbing me in the face with the latter.

And for the first time yet, the phrase stirred up once again that fiery thrill that had been missing in my heart so far in this investigation – the game _was_ afoot, and I was a part of it!

And to my surprise, I was actually excited about it now.

* * *

**_To Be Continued _**


	6. Chapter 6

Holmes had asked Mrs. Hudson to get us a cab, and so it was waiting for us at the door when we emerged into the storm. I shivered when the rain came splashing down from the roof of the cab as I got in, trickling annoyingly down my collar.

From Holmes's growls behind me, I gathered the impression that it had invaded his outerwear as well. He slammed into the seat beside me in a huff, pounding vehemently on the roof of the carriage. I was very gradually starting to get accustomed to his mood swings at last, and they were more amusing to me than annoying by this time.

We sat in a somewhat awkward silence for the journey – there had been times before when we did not say two words to each other all day and regarded it as perfectly normal, but the silence was just very slightly odd now. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and was devoutly thankful when I saw the house up ahead of us.

The rain had not even let up a fraction, and Holmes told the cabbie to wait, for we did not want to have to chase another vehicle down upon our emergence from the interview. The same maid we had spoken to earlier showed us into a parlor to await the lady of the house, and within five minutes we were learning about Elizabeth Walsh's disappearance as well.

The girl had been returning from visiting an aunt for two weeks in Dover, and her parents had gone to meet her at the train, only to find that the girl never got off. The police had located a ticket-conductor who remembered seeing a girl of her description sitting all alone in a compartment – he had remarked the fact because she was rather a pretty girl and he was surprised no one had tried to make her acquaintance.

"Elizabeth is not one to make acquaintances easily, Mr. Holmes," the good lady went on, "other than her fiancée, Mr. Stover, she really has very few friends."

I looked up from my note-taking and glanced at Holmes. That was a link – all three girls had been engaged.

"This Mr. Stover, Mrs. Walsh. What can you tell me about him?"

"Oh, he is a very nice young man, Mr. Holmes. Very intelligent, with an extraordinary head for figures. He was so brilliant when he graduated from Oxford that with very little trouble he landed employment as an accountant here in London."

"Where, exactly, is he employed?"

"I really have no idea, Mr. Holmes – they have only been seeing each other for a few months, but they insist upon getting married. My husband knows more about the man than I – as long as he treats Elizabeth well, I have no misgivings about the good lad," the woman said.

"Is your husband at home, madam?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, he will not be back from a business trip until late tomorrow night."

"Thank you, then, Mrs. Walsh – and I shall let you know if my inquiries turn up anything," Holmes said, rising from his chair and bowing.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes – please do find my daughter," the woman replied, her eyes filling with tears as her admirable composure threatened to crumble at last.

"I shall not rest until I do, madam," Holmes responded solemnly as the maid came in to show us out.

Once in the cab, Sherlock Holmes stared moodily out at the pouring rain and various passers-by that were hurrying along the walkways to get out of the torrent. I said nothing, not wishing to break into his thoughts, and I leaned back and closed my eyes – I was dreadfully tired, mentally and physically, from this draining day.

I must have fallen asleep yet again, for only what seemed an instant later we were pulling up with an enormous splash in front of 221 Baker Street. Holmes hopped down and paid the fare without a word, jumping up the steps to open the door as the wind sent another sheet of rain slamming up against us.

We practically blew into the hall with a large amount of precipitation, and I was loathe to see how Mrs. Hudson would react to the whole hall being drenched like it was now. Sherlock Holmes shrugged out of his dripping coat and tossed it toward the hook on the wall, stalking up the stairs without looking to see if the thing landed properly.

Which it did not. I sighed, picking up the ulster and hanging it with my own on the hook. Then I followed Holmes more slowly.

"Doctor?" I heard Mrs. Hudson's voice behind me.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson? I do apologize about the rain in the hall," I replied, pausing on the stairs.

" 'Tis only water, Doctor. Have no worries about it – but I came out to see if you and Mr. Holmes will be wanting any supper?"

My emotions were too unsettled to leave room for hunger, and as I heard upstairs the pacing sound of Sherlock Holmes's nervous footsteps, I knew he would not wish for anything either.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I replied, "we shall be fine."

"As you wish, Doctor. Good night."

"Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

I plodded slowly up the steps, grimacing as the ache in my leg made itself felt once again. I poked my head into the sitting room and Holmes stopped his pacing to glance up at me. His eyes were narrow with concentration, but they softened slightly as he saw me.

"Going to turn in, Watson?"

"I believe so," I replied, repressing a yawn, "do try to get some sleep yourself, Holmes. I recognize the signs – you are going to marching about all night long, aren't you?"

He chuckled. "I shall be quiet, Watson. Go on."

I smiled and withdrew my head.

"Oh, Watson?"

"Yes?" I asked, turning before I had closed the door.

He was fidgeting with his pipe, examining it as if it were not working properly – but it was perfectly fine, judging from the amount of smoke billowing from it; I judged that he was nervous about something. And finally he spoke, without looking at me.

"Remember, I shall be down here if you need me?" he asked a little hesitantly.

"Thank you, Holmes," I replied sincerely, and he nodded with one of those twitching half-smiles and then resumed his pacing. I walked up the next flight to my room and fell asleep much faster than I had anticipated doing.

And my sleep was dreamless, at least as far as I could remember, and I woke the next morning a little after eight feeling very much more in control than I had the previous day. When I saw the sun had finally broken through the cloud cover outside, my spirits lifted even higher, and I dressed hurriedly and went down to the sitting room.

Holmes was nowhere to be seen – and as I glanced down the stairs, his coat and hat were gone from the hook. I sighed, entering the sitting room, and saw that Mrs. Hudson had left a breakfast for him that he evidently (as usual) had not touched save for the coffee, and so I decided to help myself. It was still warm – he had not been gone for long.

And there was a short note, scribbled on a loose page of foolscap, that Holmes had stuck to the table weighted under the jam pot.

_Watson,_

_Merely went out to discover Stover's occupation. Will be back shortly._

_SH_

_The coffee is exceedingly strong – you might say something to Mrs. Hudson about it._

I laughed out loud. Holmes so hated confrontation with women of any sort that he would dilute the coffee with enough milk that it was no longer recognizable as the drink rather than simply ask Mrs. Hudson if she could make it a little weaker the next time.

My small appetite was soon satisfied, and I found myself within the hour wandering about the sitting room restlessly, actually bored for the first time since I could remember when. At this time every day for the past six years I had just opened the doors of my surgery and would be swamped within minutes by the first wave of patients.

And that would go on for four hours, patient after patient, ailment after ailment, prescription after prescription. Now that it was all gone, I had no idea what to do with myself in the mornings. I was still aimlessly wandering about, occasionally glancing out the windows, when I heard the door slam below me and Holmes's quick, eager footsteps on the stairs.

I turned as he entered with a spring in his step, a relieved smile on my face – I needed a familiar sight just then to dispel that odd boredom and unease.

"Good morning, Watson – I was hoping you would be up and about!" he cried with excitement, tossing his hat into the corner, where it flopped on the floor. Then his voice softened as he turned to look at me.

"No more nighttime demons, I hope?"

"No, not at all," I replied thankfully.

"Ah, excellent. Now, have you eaten?"

"Yes, only just."

"Was not that coffee extraordinarily strong?" he gasped with the air of a man who is going into shock.

"You are supposed to _eat_ something along with it, Holmes," I reminded him with mock sternness, "if you ate a normal breakfast like you should instead of fully relying on the drink to start your day, it would not seem to be so strong."

"Ever the doctor."

He dismissed my remonstrances with a wave of his hand, as he always had done, and jumped into his chair, turning round to look at me.

"Well, are you not going to ask me what I have found out, Watson?" he asked, his eyes dancing with glee.

"Are you going to actually tell me, Holmes, or try one of those 'you will see and hear enough before nightfall' lines on me?" I asked, sitting in my own chair and glancing at him mischievously.

He threw back his head and laughed outright. "No, no, my dear fellow. Never again – you shall be privy to anything I discover, I promise you."

"I shall hold you to that," I warned him.

"So be it," he replied, grinning at me, in a thoroughly good mood – far different from his moody black study of yesterday.

"Then I shall perform the necessary question: What have you found, Holmes?"

He snorted and leaned back in his chair, pointing his pipe at me like a weapon.

"You, Watson, should sleep well more often – it makes you quite a clever verbal combatant," he said teasingly.

"And a _lack_ of sleep makes you quite an infuriating one," I retorted, "now, out with it, Holmes! What have you found!" I was actually excited, despite myself.

He laughed again. "I think I might have found the link that ties all three of these girls together, Watson. Besides the fact that they were traveling alone from a holiday on a nonstop train."

"That they are all engaged?" I guessed hopefully.

"Oh, well done, Watson. Close," my companion said, "very close. The fact is, they are all three engaged, but here is the odd part: they are all three engaged to young men who are an integral part of some branch of a London bank."

Having dropped that bomb on the conversation, Holmes leaned back and puffed excitedly on his pipe.

My brain as slightly slow in processing the information.

"All three of the girls' fiancées are part of a bank hierarchy? A coincidence, surely!"

"No, Watson, it is too odd to be coincidence. The more outré the features of a crime are, the less likely that they are coincidental. No, I believe that is a vital clue."

"But surely –"

"No, listen, Watson. At first I rather thought that ransom was indeed the most logical answer to the motive, and after seeing the Harwickes' house and learning from Eckerton – I sent him a telegram while you were asleep yesterday afternoon, Watson – that his fiancée's family was also rather wealthy, that theory seemed to be very probable."

"What happened to change your mind?"

"I did a bit of research in the wee hours of the morning last night, and I found that the Walsh family is practically penniless – in debt up to that lovely house's eaves. The girl has practically no dowry. And Stover, though fairly well-off, is obviously in no shape to be able to offer a ransom."

I was puzzled by that news.

"Then - what do you think is the motive behind the abductions?"

"We do not even know for sure yet that they _were_ abductions, Watson," Holmes said enigmatically.

I stared at him. "You think that the whole thing mught be a ploy for the girls to run out on their fiancees?" I asked incredulously.

"I was inclined to lean that direction until I discovered all those coincidences of which I have just informed you. I have made no definite theories whatsoever, and I shall not until we have more data. Now, Watson. Are you up for a train ride?"

"Of course."

"Then hop down to Victoria and buy a ticket for Canterbury – Dover is too far away and you would not be back before evening. I shall go to Euston and make my way to Brighton."

I was not thrilled about the idea of making a journey alone, but I knew it had to be done; it would not be logical for both of us to take the same train when we could be covering twice as much ground.

"If I remember right, the next one leaves in an hour – I had better hurry," I said, springing to my feet, "what am I to do on board?"

"Spend your time on the platforms between cars, if possible – you must watch for any place where a man might jump, taking a young woman with him, willingly or unwillingly. Clock your progress, and write down times and locations, descriptions, etc."

"Right. Anything else?"

"Watch yourself – I do not know with whom we are dealing but they are very likely to be dangerous," Holmes said, handing me my revolver from my desk drawer.

"Oh, and Watson?" he called as I turned to leave, pocketing the gun.

"Yes?"

"Pay very close attention, because the train from Dover that the Walsh girl was on was traveling via that same track – it is most likely that both girls disappeared in the vicinity you will be traveling over."

I nodded, climbing the steps to my room to get the journal I had been writing in, feeling the excitement in my heart increasing with every passing moment – the game truly was afoot once more.

* * *

**_To be continued...thanks for reading - please review!_**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Once again, a thousand thanks to _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ for mercilessly pushing this chapter to be the best I was capable of! Here's to you, chum!**

* * *

Within ten minutes of the closing of Holmes's instructions I was sloshing away in a cab through the wet streets of London, headed for Victoria Station.

The sunlight was cheerily reflecting off the puddles in the streets and sidewalks, children were mischievously splashing each other and unwary passersby, and the entire city seemed glad at last to have a brief respite from the dreadful storm of the past few days.

And the tempest that had been thundering in my own mind had subsided somewhat in the light of day, of a beautiful day, and I wondered now how I had ever even considered moving back out of Baker Street so soon after my arrival.

Of course, the road was not going to be without obstacles, but if Sherlock Holmes's and my friendship could weather my marriage as well as his 'death' and subsequent return, then why should it not weather the storm of emotional settling? Of course, everything should be all right eventually – it was simply going to take some getting used to on both our parts.

How foolishly I had been behaving lately!

I smiled, genuinely happy for the first time in the last twenty-four hours, as I sat back in the cab and watched the cheery sunlight glinting off the buildings, sending bright yellow beams into even the darkest alleys and corners, making the whole city look like something out of a travel guide. We reached the station too soon for my liking.

I bought a ticket for Canterbury – and was suddenly reminded with a sudden pang of sadness of the last time I had boarded this train. Holmes and I had taken this very train, headed for Dover, that fateful day in '91 when Professor Moriarty had tracked us to the station. We had even gotten out at the Canterbury stop to evade the Professor's pursuit.

I had forgotten the fact until now.

Shaking off the chill that came over me as I remembered, I climbed into an empty compartment and sat down, trying to push the events of that dreadful day from my mind. I could yet almost see the tall figure of the Napoleon of Crime pushing his way through the crowd toward the barely moving train and Holmes's dead-white face at the sight of his nemesis.

Thank God the whole thing was over, and Moriarty was gone forever at the bottom of the Reichenbach Falls.

And, even more thankfully, Holmes was _not_.

I pulled out my notebook, prepared to chart our progress – then thought better of it; it would be better to wait until the ride back, for that had been the direction from which the girls had been coming. That would make it easier to track the times if I found any spots where a girl or a girl and an abductor could have left the train.

The whistle blew, and we began to move. Normally when on a train I fell asleep after listening to Holmes ramble on for an hour about whatever case we were engaged upon, but I was wide awake now, with no one to talk to – alone with my thoughts, not all of which were pleasant.

And I decided, in order to quiet my mind and try to release some of the tension that had been building up within me, that I would use the hour and a half ride to write out my feelings about Holmes's return – I had only done a mere sketch thus far. Perhaps reliving the absolute joy and amazement that I had felt upon seeing him alive in my study would alleviate some of the mental apprehension I was feeling.

I pulled out my journal, skipped a few pages ahead, and began to write, detailing the circumstances of my involvement with the Adair murder and then the subsequent reappearance in my study of my dearest friend, his explanations and my hurt at finding he had confided in his brother instead of me, of our thrilling tiger hunt through the alleys of London.

And as I wrote, slowly at first and then more rapidly as the memories came flooding back in a veritable barrage, I felt the unease draining slowly from my mind and body. I finished after the capture of Colonel Sebastian Moran and started a new page, pouring out into that journal all my fears and uncertainties, all the emotions and feelings that I had had no previous outlet for.

When my aching hand finally voiced a painful protest, I laid down the pencil, realizing that I had worn the lead down to nothing, and looked at my watch – it had been over an hour!

And as I looked back over the twenty-odd pages of writing, I realized that I was no longer feeling quite that gnawing fear of the unknown. I was no longer so uneasy about starting a new life, no longer fearful that our friendship had gone through so much only to crack under the terrific strain of a new life.

We should be fine. I could feel it. It might take weeks, even months, but we _would_ be fine.

And even as my lips turned upward in a smile at the relieved thought, I heard the whistled warning for the Canterbury station – the return train was scheduled for fifteen minutes from now. I would not have long to wait, and then the work would begin.

I sat upon a bench outside the station, once again remembering the last time I had been here three years ago – we had been forced to hide behind a pile of luggage on this very platform as we watched Moriarty's special train whiz by the station after us.

Now, in the light of a glorious spring day and my perfectly delightful mood, that awful April seemed like nothing more than a distant bad dream.

Much as I was enjoying the fresh country air, however, I was still glad to see the return train approaching the station – now I could do something to aid in the investigation at hand, something tangible. My heart thrilled with excitement as the train finally pulled out of the station.

I took up a position on the platform of the last car, standing at the rail and looking about me. The air was warm and breezy, and no trace of the storm that had held London in its grip was at all evident in the peaceful surroundings. I took a deep invigorating breath, drinking it all in.

Then I sternly pulled myself back into the problem at hand – I could almost hear Holmes admonishing me to _'cut out the poetry, Watson.'_ I hastily scribbled in my book the time of departure and then set my gaze upon the passing scenery.

The train was rather rapidly picking up speed – within five minutes it would have been going far too fast for anyone to have jumped from it. I made a note of the fact and returned to my watching. The train was moving along the countryside at a fast clip for nearly a half-hour – there was no conceivable way could anyone have gotten on _or_ off.

But then the train slowed considerably to go round a sharp curve in the tracks, and as I judged the distance, I determined that an active man might possibly have been able to jump and take the impact rolling, surviving the fall. But there was no way he could have done so carrying a fully grown woman; she would have had to have gone willingly with him.

I jotted the time and description down as the train picked up speed once again.

For another twenty minutes, the train whizzed along at such a velocity that the mere thought of trying to jump from it turned my stomach. And then I noticed that its speed slowed as we went through a lush green meadow – I supposed because of the amount of livestock around; the train had to be able to stop in time if a cow were to wander onto the tracks.

That was a more likely place for someone to have gotten on or off. I am not a foolhardy risk-taker, but I believe I should not have been much afraid to try it at the speed at which we were now going. And we stayed that slow for a good ten minutes – long enough to drug a woman and carry her out onto a platform.

I scribbled down notes to that effect as we sped up once more.

Within another uneventful half-hour, I saw the buildings of London and knew that we were not going to slow down any more. I closed the book and went back into the nearest empty compartment, peering anxiously out the windows at the grey-black clouds which were beginning to choke the blueness of the London sky once more.

My spirit sank, for I was heartily sick of the rain and wishing vehemently for more sunshine – but at least we had had one morning of it, at any rate. I sank back with a sigh, waiting for the warning for Victoria to sound in the corridor.

I also noticed that since it was now after noon, I was actually quite hungry for the first time in two days – I sincerely hoped Mrs. Hudson had a good luncheon waiting for me. Holmes would not be back from Brighton for another two hours, at the very least, and I had no desire to wait on him. He probably would be too excited to eat, at any rate.

Despite the now only feeble sunshine, I still was glad to see familiar London again and hailed a cab for Baker Street, reaching my home in record time. I paused for a moment with my hand on the doorknob, considering what I had just thought – I was finally considering this place to be home?

I pushed open the door and hung my hat and coat on the peg. Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of the kitchen, apron-clad, telling me my luncheon would be ready within moments, and I was very grateful for the fact.

And my spirits, which had dampened upon the sight of foggy London after the beauty of the country, calmed once again when I had finished a good meal of Mrs. Hudson's and had spent a cozy half-hour reading by the fire.

Holmes would not be back for a good hour and a half yet, and so I decided to take a short nap in case our investigation took us out late tonight – I also did not want to be a wet blanket upon his excited mood if my companion suggested any activity. I left my journal on the table and went up to my room, falling upon my bed and dropping into a dreamless sleep.

I was abruptly awakened some time later by a violent and startling clap of thunder; the storm had returned with a vengeance. I sighed ruefully as I stretched and rubbed my eyes, glancing at the time.

Half-past five? Holmes should have returned over two hours ago – why had he not wakened me? He was sure to be curious as to what I had found out on the train!

Worried that he was going to be annoyed with me, I quickly donned my dressing gown and made my way down to the sitting room, stifling back a wide yawn. The wind was howling all round the house, rattling the windows, and I was glad to see through the cracked sitting room door that the fire was still burning brightly.

But when I opened the door, my heart jumped in horror. Holmes was standing with his profile facing me, completely unaware of my presence – and he was reading that journal I had taken with me this morning!

I had completely forgotten til now about my emotional outburst on the train and had left that thing carelessly lying around – he was bound to pick it up out of curiosity, thinking that it was the information from the train, not wanting to waken me for a report unless he had to.

_How much had he seen?_

"Holmes!" I said nervously, walking rapidly into the room.

He jumped like a frightened rabbit, nearly dropping the book in his startlement, and I could see from his profile that his ears had flushed bright red at being caught. I jumped forward and snatched the book from his hand, thoroughly embarrassed, and he raised his eyes to look at me in shame – but that was not what arrested my attention.

Not the embarrassment and shame written upon his clear-cut face, not the superficial remorse at being caught snooping in my private thoughts, but a deep sense of guilt that I realized he must have gotten from reading my outburst in that book of earlier. His grey eyes were filled with it – a deep guilt.

"I – I am sorry, Watson," he stammered, his pale face flushing, "I thought it was your record of the time spent on the train – I didn't realize –"

"You might have asked, Holmes!" I cried, nearly shaking from the thought that he had read all of what I had put down in there – I opened my soul to no one like that, not even Holmes; he was not the only one who kept a hidden part of themselves from the world.

"Watson, I am sorry! I didn't know!" His voice was pleading with me to understand.

It was not that I minded his going through my things – living with a private detective, I had gotten used to his inquisitive nature and did not mind it. He usually asked first, but on the odd occasion he did not, and I had many times told him it was fine with me.

I had forgotten to not leave anything lying around that I did not want him to look at – it had been three years and I had forgotten many little things about our lives.

I shoved the book in my pocket. "How much did you read, Holmes?" I asked, my voice shaking.

His face turned another shade of red.

"Enough," he whispered, that look of intense guilt crossing his face once more.

"How could you!" I snapped, filled with anger and embarrassment over my emotional ourburst of writing. "Have three years of absence entirely taken away your respect for other people's privacy?!"

"I apologized, Watson!" he snapped right back at me, his eyes flashing with an anger to match my own, "What more do you want from me?"

"Perhaps to stay out of my affairs!" I cried. "I am having enough trouble dealing with this transition without having to worry about you intruding upon my private thoughts!"

I stopped suddenly, absolutely appalled at what had just come unbidden out of my mouth - and saw a deep hurt flash across Holmes's face, which had suddenly paled.

What was I thinking?

My anger had fled at the sight of his wounded expression, and I was now overcome with remorse and a good deal of embarrassment for my hasty words and conduct. Feeling my grip on my emotions starting to slip, I felt my face flush with mortification.

"Forgive me," I gasped, turning round to flee the room before I said something further I would deeply regret.

"Watson, wait!"

I paid him no heed, stumbling up the stairs to my old room and shutting the door. I tossed the offending journal on my writing desk and collapsed into the chair beside it, breathing heavily, feeling the remnant of my anger and embarrassment dissipate and turn slowly to a deep-seated uncertainty.

Holmes had not meant to intrude upon my private thoughts – it was perfectly natural that he would see the journal as the one I had taken this morning and, not wanting to waken me, he had started through it to find the information from the train. It was most certainly not his fault, and I was not really even angry that he had done so.

I was more scared than angry – frightened, uncertain, vulnerable – feelings I did not want anyone else to ever know. This last fortnight had been an emotional rollercoaster for me, and the last two days had done nothing to help my already churning feelings.

I had not wanted Holmes to know all those horrid feelings I had been having – the misgivings about moving back in, the irritation with Holmes's idiosyncrasies and the anger about his three-year deception, the wondering if I could even do this for the rest of my life, the grief that had just resurfaced about Mary's death, the fear that our friendship was going to crack under the strain of adjustment – all of those intense feelings my friend had just now discovered.

He had unwittingly stumbled straight into my very soul, and the thought scared me. I felt so open, so vulnerable, so uncertain of anything and everything – I was no longer thinking rationally.

And I was not overly happy to hear an anxious knocking on my door a moment later.

* * *

**_To Be Continued..._**


	8. Chapter 8

The knock on my door sounded urgently once more.

"Watson? Are you all right?"

I said nothing, not trusting my voice yet to words, just sitting there at my desk, rubbing uneasily at my temples, feeling a headache coming on.

But I had forgotten to lock the door, and Sherlock Holmes was notorious for not obeying the normal protocol regarding a shut door. I heard it open and then close again, and I knew that he was standing there behind me uncertainly.

"I am sorry for losing my temper just now, Holmes," I said quietly when I felt at last that my voice was under control, "I had no right to blow up at you like that."

"Oh, my dear fellow!" I heard him sigh wearily, pulling up an armchair next to my desk and nearly collapsing into it, running a hand uneasily through his hair.

"We need to talk, Watson," he said at last.

And for some reason the words filled me with dread – was he going to tell me that I was right in my fears, that this partnership was simply not going to work as we had thought it would? Was he going to agree with my uncertainty and say that it simply was not going to be the same as it had in the past?

I sat up in my chair and gave him my attention, a cold icy weight clawing its way into my heart at the fear of what he was about to say.

Holmes was fidgeting nervously with a cut-glass paperweight that sat on my desk, his thin fingers tracing its sharp facets over and over again. He was obviously ill at ease, and he refused to meet my eyes – not a usual occurrence, and the fact bothered me not a little.

Finally, as his fingers traced the same pattern for the twentieth time, I reached out and moved the paperweight out of his reach.

He took a deep breath and looked up at me. Clearing his throat, he spoke nervously.

"Watson, I am sorry I read that journal. I thought it was merely your account of the train. I – I had no idea in the world that – that you had written all that this morning."

"I had no right to become angry, Holmes. I should not have left it down there," I replied.

We were both dancing round the real issue, and we both knew it.

Holmes took another deep breath and spoke again with an effort.

"Watson, I must ask for your forgiveness," he said quietly, once again dropping his gaze.

That was not what I had been expecting to hear.

"Whatever for?"

"For my lack of perception, old chap," he sighed, "I am supposed to be the keenest observer on the planet, and I could not even deduce what was wrong with my dearest friend. Please, forgive me."

I was stunned – that was certainly not what I was anticipating from him.

"Holmes, I –"

He cut me off with an upraised hand, his saddened grey eyes only briefly meeting mine before dropping once again in abject shame.

"There is no excuse for it, Watson. I do apologize, and I promise you I shall be more considerate in the future," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

I did not know what to say, and I was saved having to stammer round for a reply when he lifted his head and met my gaze.

"And I also promise you, Watson, that we will get through this – together. We shall, I promise," he said solemnly. "It may take quite a while and quite a bit of work, especially on my part, but we _shall_ weather the storm, I give you my word."

Just as he spoke, there was another enormous clap of thunder and a blinding flash of lightning outside my window. And at Holmes's unintentionally awful pun we stared at each other for several stunned seconds, and then we both burst into a fit of uncontrollable, nearly hysterical laughter.

The reaction was so intense that I was almost limp ten minutes later when I had finally stopped, and I stood up with Holmes eagerly, feeling somehow lighter than I had in quite some time.

"If I had not heard that with my own ears, I should not have believed it," Holmes muttered, still chortling under his breath as we exited my bedroom.

"That shall simply _have_ to go in the story," I said, following closely on his heels, "such a horrid pun, Holmes – even from you!"

"I never professed to be the man of letters in this partnership, Doctor," he retorted, throwing open the sitting room door and striding over to the sideboard. Yes, indeed – I believed we both needed a bracer after the last hour's events.

He poured two glasses and handed one to me, soon draining his own and then throwing himself down in his chair after grabbing his pipe from the mantle.

"What did you discover about the train ride, Watson?" he asked, fumbling in his pocket for a match.

I sat opposite him and detailed my findings to him. Holmes listened with strict attention, occasionally asking about a detail, until I had finished. Then he sat back, his brow furrowed in thought.

"I had much the same experience, Watson. There were only three places on the train from Brighton that anyone could possibly have gotten a woman off a moving train."

"That has been puzzling me, Holmes," I said, trying to think, "there is something wrong with that whole abduction business, but I cannot put my finger on what."

He nodded in agreement.

"It is just possible that the girls were not taken from the train while it was moving after all, Watson," he said thoughtfully, "it is entirely plausible that they could have been drugged and disguised, then taken from the train at the station."

"Ah, and Eckerton would not have noticed, for he would have been looking for only one person. He did say the train was not searched until after everyone had exited," I replied.

Holmes slammed his hand down on the arm of the chair in frustration. "Watson! I am a fool!"

"I shall reserve my judgment upon that point until a later date," I teased him.

He snorted in amusement but then went on, his voice tight with excitement.

"In all probability, Watson, those girls were _not_ abducted from a moving train, for surely someone would have seen them. I find it hard to believe that all the difficulties in taking a full grown woman from a train carriage and then getting off said train without being seen could have transpired without _someone_ noticing."

"It _would_ be rather difficult," I agreed.

"Exactly, Watson – it would simply be easier to wait until they got close to London and then to have drugged the girls and disguised them so as to not be recognized. Eckerton was only looking for one woman; he never would have noticed any others!"

"That does seem more logical."

"It _is_, Watson, it is! All my instincts were against this train abduction theory – it was simply too obvious. The whole point! The people who took these women wanted Scotland Yard and the girls' families to _think_ they had disappeared while on the train, somewhere between those cities and London. Thus directing the focus to another point of the country, completely obfuscating the real objective – London."

"The trains themselves are irrelevant, then?"

"Completely, Watson. They were a mere smoke-screen. Now, if all three girls had disappeared on the same train, that might have been an item to have noted – but they were not! Oh, what a fool I have been!"

Holmes finished his self-deprecating tirade and threw himself out of his chair, pacing nervously up and down in front of the windows.

"We have wasted an entire morning of investigation thanks to my stupidity, Watson!" he snarled, whirling round to fix me with a black look.

I gently tapped the journal that lay beside me on the couch.

"Not an entire waste, my dear fellow," I said simply.

His dark scowl faded slightly, and he flopped down into his chair once more with a weary sigh.

"What now, Holmes? If the girls were not taken from the trains whilst they were moving, we do not have anything to go on – no clues of any kind," I said despondently, a deep discouragement coming over me.

The front door-bell rang at this juncture, and a moment later Mrs. Hudson ushered in the thin, eager figure of our client.

"Mr. Eckerton, I was about to wire for you," Holmes said.

"I decided to take my lunch break to come and see you, Mr. Holmes," the man replied, "have you found out anything at all about Annie?"

"I have reason to believe, Mr. Eckerton, that your fiancée was not abducted while the train was in motion but rather when she reached London," Holmes told the man.

"When she reached London? But I was there, on the platform – she could not have been taken right in front of me!"

"Perhaps she was drugged and then disguised in some fashion," I said, trying to calm the man down slightly, "I daresay your eyes were only searching for her, lad – no one else."

The poor chap's features twitched nervously, and he flushed slightly.

"Yes, Doctor, I must admit I paid little or no attention to my surroundings at that point. Do you really think it likely, Mr. Holmes, that she disappeared right there on the platform of Euston Station?"

"I think it very probable," Holmes replied, "and until I receive any further data to contradict that theory, we shall continue with it as a working hypothesis."

"Good Lord, to think that I was right there on the platform when poor Annie was –" our unfortunate client moaned dismally and leaned against the wall, his blue eyes filling with anguish.

"It was not your fault, Mr. Eckerton," I said gently.

"Perhaps not, Doctor, but I cannot help but still feel guilty," he whispered, staring at the floor.

"Mr. Eckerton, I need a few direct answers to some questions," Holmes said briskly.

I shot my friend a warning glare, but he appeared to have not seen it, for he continued blithely in his interrogation of our distraught client.

I was rather proud of Eckerton, for he with a great effort instantly pulled himself together and answered the questions Holmes rapidly fired at him.

"Does your fiancée have any enemies, Mr. Eckerton?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, not that I know of. I mean, every girl has petty jealousies from her lady friends, but no one would take the time and trouble to wish her such harm."

"And yourself?"

"None, that I am aware of," the man replied honestly, "I have few friends, and fewer enemies. No one that I know of would do such a thing."

I well believed that the poor fellow had no ill-wishers, for he appeared to be as amiable as they come. My heart once again went out to the chap as he stood there, patiently answering Holmes's rather impersonal queries.

"Have you or the girl's family received any ransom note or threatening letter, anything of the kind?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. We have heard nothing."

Holmes sighed, slumping back down into his chair and relighting his pipe. I recognized the signs of a coming three-hour smoking/thinking session, and I had no wish to remain in the house while he filled the sitting room with that poisonous atmosphere.

"If and when you hear from the abductors, Mr. Eckerton, _do not_ go to the police, but rather come straight to me. Do you understand?" Holmes asked, fixing our client with a piercing stare.

"Yes, sir. I give you my word."

"Thank you, Mr. Eckerton. I shall contact you the instant I find anything out," Holmes returned, settling back into his chair.

"Holmes, I am going to run a few errands," I said, pulling on my coat and preparing to walk out with Eckerton. I was in dire need of some basic personal effects that had inexplicably been lost in the move from my old house.

Holmes either did not hear me, already engrossed in the intricacies of his formidable mind, or else he was ignoring me; so I shrugged in response to Eckerton's amused glance and we left the room together.

"Please do try to not worry yourself more than necessary, Mr. Eckerton," I said as we entered the street – the rain had stopped, thank heaven, "we are doing everything we can, rest assured upon that point."

"Thank you, Doctor," the lad said, his face relaxing just a trifle, "I really do appreciate you and Mr. Holmes's taking the case. I am sure it seems rather trivial to you both, but I promise it means all the world to me – more so, actually."

His honest face was so sad that it touched my heart.

"No, lad," I said quietly as we walked along Oxford Street down to Regent, "the loss of the one you love is never a trivial matter."

"Thank you, Doctor," he said, shooting me a grateful glance. We walked along together toward Regent Street, where the young man worked in a branch of the Bank of England.

I happened to glance over my shoulder at one point, and my heart jumped with sudden alarm as I saw three men come sidling out of an alley behind us a half a block back.

I shook off the feeling of unease, knowing that my years of acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes had made me overly suspicious of people in general - part of the curse of living with the world's greatest detective - but still I chanced another look a few minutes later and found that they were still there behind us, only a little closer this time.

Another part of the curse was what Holmes called intuition or instinct, and what others termed sixth sense; either way, I had a bad feeling about the men, and I told Eckerton in a low voice what I suspected, grabbing his arm to prevent his turning round.

"Doctor, what shall we do?" he hissed nervously.

I told him to follow me, and we made for the nearest pawn shop across the street, stepping inside and acting as if we were browsing round. I carefully peered round a large grandfather clock in the front window to see if I could spot the three men.

And sure enough, they were all standing on the sidewalk across the street, watching the store. I took a deep breath and went back to Eckerton, who was nervously trying to extricate himself from the pawnbroker's talkative sales pitch.

I pulled our client back out into the street and started walking once more, wishing with all that was in me that I knew what to do – but wait! Holmes had told me to take my revolver with me this morning, and I had stuffed it into my pocket!

I now had a heavy overcoat on over my jacket, however, and so I pulled Eckerton along with me into a small side street where I knew a policeman had a regular beat and began to unbutton the ulster as we walked rapidly along the little street.

My nervous hands were shaking and fumbling for the buttons, and I did not have them undone fully when suddenly two of the three men came out of an alleyway just ahead of us and blocked the path – they had nipped through the alley and cut us off!

Eckerton gasped in fright as the other man appeared in the shadows behind us, and I swallowed hard, trying desperately to get my coat unbuttoned. But before I could, the men were closing on us, and too late I realized I had chosen the wrong side street to take – there was no one else to be seen on the stretch of pavement save the five of us.

I had unwittingly placed us both in peril, and now I was going to have to get us out.

If that were possible against three men, armed with weighted clubs.

* * *

**_Mm, not a cliffhanger! Well, you can hardly blame me - I haven't had one thus far, and that's a record!_**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Now, just look how nice I am - I shan't be back in town til this afternoon, so I got up an extra fifteen minutes early this morning (5:45, no less - eugh!) so that people wouldn't have to have that cliffhanger all day long!**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Eckerton's breathing had quickened as he realized we were surrounded. I knew that the men probably had something to do with the case, and that they were probably after our client, not me.

"Eckerton," I said in a low voice as the two men in front of us drew nearer.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"When I tell you to, I want you to run, as fast as you can. Find a bobby and then get back here."

"And leave you to fight off three of them all alone? I can't do that, Doctor!"

"You can and you will, for you promised Holmes and me you would do what we said. I can hold off three of them until you get back. Besides, it is you they are after, not me – you have to get away," I said, finally getting my overcoat unbuttoned at last.

"But, Doctor!"

"Do as I say, lad!" I hissed as the men were suddenly upon us. I pushed Eckerton up against the brick of the nearby building and stood in front of him, reaching for my revolver.

"I wouldn't try that, Doctor," the tallest of the three said, casually exhibiting a large club, weighted with lead.

"What do you want?" I demanded, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Got nothing against you, Doctor, just want to warn this lad here that he shouldn't ha' gone to Mr. Sherlock Holmes with his case, that's all," the man said, glaring at our client.

The man doing the talking was a good two inches taller than I, but the other two were rather short and one was stout. I might be able to take the two of them out within a few minutes if I were lucky – but I did not know about the leader.

"Well, you've warned him. Now what?" I asked, hoping my nervous state was not showing.

"Oh, no, Doctor. Not that kind of a warning. We want to give him a warning he won't likely forget," the man said, stepping forward and waving that club within an inch of my face.

Behind me, I could feel Eckerton nearly shaking with fright, poor lad, and the movement gave me the courage to not flinch in the face of the three ruffians.

"I have no desire to do you an injury, Doctor, as long as you cause no trouble. Now kindly step aside, and you shall not be touched," the man said, his false courtesy fairly nauseating me.

I thought quickly and made my decision.

"Very well," I sighed tiredly, stepping away from Eckerton.

As I had suspected, they were not anticipating my giving in so easily, and for an moment the three men were nonplussed. And I took that one instant of hesitation to grab the end of that weighted club, plant my feet firmly, and use all my weight to swing hard with it, throwing the man off-balance and sending him sprawling into the path of the other two.

"Run, lad!" I shouted as the leader started to pick himself up, swearing and cursing worse than any sailor of my acquaintance.

"But –"

"Go! Now!" I cried, ducking a swing from my attacker and slamming the stick into his stomach.

I heard a pounding of footsteps as our client took off down the pavement, but I had no time to think of anything else, for I was now engaged in the fight of my life against three men.

I still held my opponent's club, and I landed a blow with it to his shins and then drove the point of it into his stomach once more, a satisfied feeling coming over me when he screamed and doubled over in pain.

But my satisfaction was short-lived when I felt the sharp blow of another club come smashing down on my shoulder, and the cane I held dropped from my nerveless fingers. I whirled only in time to dodge a ferocious blow to the head with the club from the stouter of the two men and then spent the next few minutes merely trying to duck and dodge, much less land any blows of my own.

I was moving without thinking, all the old self-defense techniques that Holmes had painstakingly over the years tried to fix in my brain tumbling at once in a jumbled mess through my mind, and I finally managed to land a knockout blow to the stouter man's jaw.

But as he dropped, I felt a crashing blow to my already sore shoulder and then a slicing pain to my head dropped me to my knees, my vision blurring. I felt blood running down the side of my face, and it turned me disoriented and dizzy.

I was relying fully on instinct now until my vision decided to come back to normal, and so it was luck rather than skill that allowed me to dodge the blow aimed at my face in the next second. I slammed all my weight into the pair of legs that were standing in front of me and knocked the man over.

He kicked out viciously, and I had not seen the blow coming and took it square in the stomach, the force driving all the air from my lungs. As I lay on the ground, struggling desperately to make my lungs function, unable to breathe even a little, I barely saw out of my darkening vision the taller of the men grab the club I had dropped at the beginning of the fight and start to swipe at my head with it.

I rolled away from the first swing but could not move fast enough to get clear of the second, and it struck me in the already sore spot where my head was bleeding, and for the second time my vision started to spin and darken.

I vaguely remembered hearing a police whistle and shouting before I finally could no longer sense anything.

* * *

When I opened my eyes, I instantly noticed a great throbbing in my head, and I groaned upon remembering what had just happened. When I saw that I was in a hospital bed, my mood sank even lower. I was a physician, but I hated being doctored by others. I wanted out of here, right now. 

I tried to sit up, to see if there were anyone around, but at the attack of dizziness that assailed me and the flashing pain at my temple, I slumped back on the pillow with a moaning sigh. I raised my hand to my head and felt a bandage – of course, the weighted cane had made a direct connection with my skull.

What a dreadful way to spend an afternoon.

The door of my room opened to admit a very pale, scared-looking James Eckerton, who was just finishing conversing with a pretty nurse in the hall. When he glanced in and saw I was awake, he fairly jumped over to my bed and looked down at me.

"Dr. Watson – are you all right?" he asked, his pale face drawn and worried.

"As far as I know, Eckerton," I said with a smile, "I've been in far worse scrapes than that one in my years."

"You frightened me half to death," the poor fellow said, and indeed I could see that he was shaking all over, "it took me too long to find a policeman, and when we came back, I was – I was sure you'd been killed!"

"Far from it," I said quietly, wincing as another throb went through my head.

"Why did you do that, Doctor?" Eckerton asked me, his honest face drawn and puzzled.

"Do what?"

"Hold them off so I could get away?"

"You could call it duty to a client," I said, not really knowing how to answer the question.

"Duty would have been to fight beside me, not let me get off scot-free, Doctor," the man said sternly, shaking a finger at me. The young fellow's reprimanding attitude was so ridiculous that I had to laugh.

But I regretted it instantly when my head protested.

"Eckerton, where am I?"

"The nearest hospital, Doctor. We got you into a cab after the police had chased off the two men who were still conscious – they got the one you knocked out, by the way, and he is in a cell by now I should imagine."

"Good," I said wearily, knowing that he might be a key to the affair – Holmes would be glad to have one of them to interrogate.

"As soon as the other two had run off, we brought you here straightway – you had to have twelve stitches in your head, Doctor – what in heaven's name did they use on you?"

"A Penang-lawyer," I replied. At the man's puzzled expression, I explained. "A club weighted with lead. One of Holmes's favorite weapons."

Holmes – where was he? Did he even know that his client and I had been attacked? Where –

My thoughts were abruptly broken by a commotion in the hall. I could hear the nurse's voice raised in a vociferous protest as well as a familiar strident tone of voice that I knew all too well. Both voices were amplified as the door swung open.

"But, sir! One visitor at a time is our policy! You simply cannot –" the woman was remonstrating.

"Your policy can go to blazes!"

Holmes nearly yelled over his shoulder at the poor girl as he stormed into the room. He stopped short upon seeing Eckerton and myself staring at him in some amusement, and at the sight of me his pale, worried face blanched an even more ashen color.

"I shall go now, Doctor – thank you very much again, sir," Eckerton said softly, nodding to Holmes and leaving us together in the room, shutting the door behind him. I could hear his voice trying to calm the distraught nurse as he moved on down the corridor.

"Good Lord, Watson," Holmes gasped, collapsing into a chair beside the bed.

"Holmes, for heaven's sake," I said weakly, "we've been far worse off than this before. It's only a shallow wound, and it's already been stitched up."

"Yes, and it is still bleeding," he whispered, his face drawn with worry as he gently touched the thick bandage with a trembling hand.

"There is normally a good deal of blood involved with a head injury, Holmes, that is a perfectly normal occurence," I said, wincing as the talking jarred the aching injury again.

He dropped his head limply into his hands.

"Do you have any idea how badly you frightened me, Watson?" he gasped at long last.

"Yes, I rather imagine I do," I replied softly, remembering all the times I had thought him to be in grave danger or even fatal jeopardy – the most recent of which was that horrible day in '91 when I thought him dead, gone forever.

He raised his head to look at me, and I could see he was badly shaken by this little drama. I saw his near-panicked eyes suddenly assume a look of shame and guilt.

"Yes, of course," he whispered, "it was a thoughtless question. My apologies."

It was only then that I noticed he was without a coat and hat, and his clothes were sopping wet.

"Did the storm start up again, Holmes?"

"Yes, a few minutes before Eckerton's message reached me," he replied.

"Then where the devil is your coat – you're going to catch your death of cold, Holmes!" I said, worried indeed about him, for he was already shivering and his voice was rather rasping.

"I forgot it."

"Forgot it!"

"I had something rather more important on my mind, Watson!" he snapped. Then, calming himself, he went on, "I couldn't get a cab to pick me up until I was almost to Regent Street."

"You're going to catch pneumonia!"

Holmes looked at me for a moment with a piercing glare. Then his gaze softened, and he smiled and spoke quietly.

"One of these days, Watson, you are going to need to learn the art of being selfish," he said.

I was surprised, and a little flattered, by his statement.

"Very well, then, Holmes, I shall be selfish. Get me out of here!" I begged, not wanting to stay in this wretched place any longer.

"You are not fit to –"

"I am the doctor, Holmes, and I shall be the judge of that – please? I want to go home," I pleaded with him, almost surprising myself at the fact that I really did want to go home – and that the word _home_ had at long last conjured up in my mind our sitting room at Baker Street.

I had again tried to raise myself as I spoke earnestly, but I grew dizzy once more and Holmes caught hold of my shoulders before I slammed my head back into the pillow.

"You are not going to go anywhere, Watson, until you are physically able to," he said sternly, pushing me back with a firm grip, "and that is not until the doctor attending you _and_ I both say so. And that is final."

"You - are horrid," I muttered, trying weakly to glare at him.

At my extremely immature statement, a startled chuckle escaped his lips, and he patted my arm in a rare gesture of affection.

"I have been called worse," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

I glowered at him. "I could oblige with that as well, but I am rather too tired at the moment!"

"Go to sleep then, Watson," he said gently.

"What will you be doing?"

"I shall go and interrogate that man who attacked you, and then I shall be back before you waken, old chap."

"Promise me you will not do anything stupid, Holmes," I murmured, my eyelids indeed growing heavy.

"Stupid as in what?"

"As in your _usual_ interrogation tactics when I've been injured, Holmes," I said pointedly, struggling to keep my eyes open. Holmes's own eyes flashed with hidden fire as he looked down at me before they softened once more.

"As you wish, Watson," he said quietly, pulling up the blankets around me.

"And Holmes?"

"Yes, old fellow?"

"Don't go after the others without picking me up along the way?" I asked sleepily, but in all seriousness.

Through my nearly-shut eyelids I saw him smile fondly.

"I shall do nothing of importance without you, Watson, you have my word on it. Now go to sleep."

I was more than happy to obey.

* * *

**_To be continued - thanks for reading and reviewing!_**


	10. Chapter 10

When I awoke the next time, the terrible throbbing in my head had subsided somewhat to a dull ache. I opened my eyes, blinking at the light, and saw Sherlock Holmes sitting beside my bed, watching me anxiously.

"How do you feel, Watson?" he asked worriedly.

I moved slightly, very pleased that I was not feeling any nausea or dizziness, not yet at least.

"I feel fine, Holmes – I want to go home," I said.

He raised his eyebrows and then laughed, relief filling his strained, pale face.

"Dr. Barton said you were free to go if you felt up to it," he replied with a smile.

"Then what are we waiting for?"

"But…I am not sure _I_ approve of your leaving yet, Watson," he began, his eyes twinkling mischievously at me.

"Holmes, I _swear_, if you –"

"Easy, old fellow, I was just teasing you!" he exclaimed, laughing at my glare. His next words were abruptly stopped by a loud sneeze, and I just now realized he sounded rather congested.

"I _told_ you you were going to catch pneumonia!" I exclaimed in dismay, starting to sit up.

Holmes cleared his throat and shook his head as if to clear it, putting a supporting arm round my shoulders in case I grew dizzy once again. But I was extremely pleased to discover that I felt fine other than having a dreadful headache.

Holmes helped me up and then his supporting arm tightened once again as he sneezed violently.

"Perhaps _you_ should be staying in hospital, not I, Holmes," I said, a wicked smile crossing my face at his suddenly panicked countenance.

"Let's get out of here, Watson," he growled, and I noticed his voice was rather hoarse. He undoubtedly was coming down with a cold from his coatless run through the rain earlier.

Once we were both settled in a cab outside, I turned to him inquiringly.

"So, Holmes, what did you –"

"_Achoo_!"

"Bless you. What did you find out from the fellow I tangled with in the street?"

Holmes cleared his throat hoarsely, an extremely disgruntled look crossing his face, and he hunched himself up in the seat as if he were trying to vanish into the corner.

"Nothing, Watson," he said, punctuating his frustration with some rather choice language, "he would tell me nothing other than that he was hired for 'a job' to warn Eckerton he should not have consulted me."

He stopped as another sneeze violently racked his body, and I struggled out of my overcoat and handed it to him. Glaring at me, he refused to take the article of clothing. So I merely threw it at him and most of it landed on him, covering his arms at least.

He coughed again, and an alarm bell sounded in my mind. As always, Holmes deduced what I was thinking from my features.

"You are most definitely _not_ forcing me to drink that foul-smelling cough syrup again, Watson!" he snapped, finally taking my coat and huddling miserably into it, "you are not going to inveigle me into taking that twice in the same decade!"

"I am rather surprised you remember that," I said, trying not to laugh at his childish behavior, "it had to be six years ago at least!"

Holmes muttered something grumpily, sneezing again. Despite my amusement, I was quite worried about him – his face appeared to be rather flushed, either from irritation or a fever. As I watched him carefully, trying to appear as if I were not scrutinizing his behavior, he shivered and pulled my coat closer around him, clearing his throat once more.

Poor chap, by the time we had reached Baker Street he looked utterly miserable. So miserable, in fact, that he did not object when I insisted he change and sit by the fire while I fixed him a hot drink. The fact that he made no remonstrance over my fussing alarmed me more than his symptoms did – it was very unlike him.

My head was throbbing by the time I finished making the hot lemon water, and so after handing the glass to my friend, I started rummaging round in my bag for a pain reliever. I stopped my searching when Holmes broke into a violent coughing fit, and I walked over and crouched beside his chair.

He glared at me.

"Go away, Watson," he growled.

I almost smiled; three years had not changed his disposition when he was sick. But as he sneezed once more and moaned, I grew worried, and I laid my hand on his forehead – as I had feared, he was running a fever.

"Holmes, you are going to bed this instant," I said sternly, hauling him bodily up out of the chair.

"I said go away, Watson," he growled, sneezing once again.

"You are the one who wanted me to move back into these rooms, Holmes – so you are going to deal with the consequences. Now move along," I said firmly, trying to ignore the pain in my head as I pushed him toward his bedroom.

Proof of how ill he was, was evidenced in the fact that he only feebly struggled against my prodding. His fever did not appear to be high, but it still had to make him dreadfully uncomfortable, and he did not protest again when I put him to bed and piled several blankets on him.

I went and got my bag and then took his temperature – as I thought, not a high fever, but enough of one. Holmes's face was flushed and his coughing started up again as I put the thermometer away.

I knew I had to give him medicine, and I groaned at the thought – my head was throbbing violently, and I had no desire to make the pain worse by arguing with a grumpy detective. I bent over Holmes, and his bleary eyes looked at me with a rather pathetic venom.

"Holmes, I have to give you some medicine, or you will not be able to continue this case tomorrow," I tried the logical approach first.

"No."

His flat denial would have been comical had my head not been hurting so.

"Confound it, Holmes, I am in no mood to argue with you! Now you _will_ drink this, or I shall sit on you and forcibly pour it down your stubborn throat!" I snapped, wearily massaging my temples.

I felt that the bandage was damp; the wound must have opened up again. Indeed, I was starting to feel rather nauseous and I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed.

Even ill, Holmes's sharp perception had not missed those things.

"Go lie down, Watson," he said hoarsely.

"I will not. Not until you take something for that cold," I snapped.

My inexorable eyes met his, and for a minute we glared at each other. Then the absurdity of the situation broke upon me, and I started to chuckle. After a moment, Holmes joined me.

"Is it just I, Watson, or has three years made you more obstinate than ever?" his hoarse whisper followed me as I prepared a dose of medicine for him.

"Hmph," I snorted, secretly pleased that I had won this battle so easily – I did not think I would have had the strength to carry on much longer.

Holmes's spluttering reaction to the cough syrup and the juvenile faces he made upon its consumption were worse than any child I have ever come across in all my years of doctoring, and it gave me a bit of badly needed comic relief.

I made sure the blankets were tucked snugly in round him and checked his fever once more – it had not risen any. I suspected just a bad cold; probably he would be much better by morning.

As I pulled my hand away Holmes's eyes half-opened once again, and he peered at me sleepily.

"That wound needs redressing, Watson," he murmured before closing them once more, the medicine slowly taking its drowsy effect.

I smiled, turning out the gas and exiting the bedroom.

I rewrapped the deep cut on my head, wincing as I saw the stitches – I was going to have to comb my hair differently for a fortnight to disguise the fact! Then I fixed myself a very light pain reliever, one that would not make me drowsy – I had done enough sleeping the last few days to last me a week – and picked up the book I had been reading.

Lighting a candle, I returned to Holmes's bedroom and pulled a chair up noiselessly beside his bed, intending to keep a vigil to assure myself that his fever would not go up. My mouth curved upward in a smile as I recalled his simple "I forgot" when I had asked him about his coat.

Suddenly I had a horrid thought – Eckerton! He had gone back to work, and those two men were still at large! They would probably find him when he got off from his job!

I quickly went out to the sitting room, wincing as the pain in my head increased with the sudden movement, and scribbled out a quick warning telegram to Eckerton and one to Gregson at the Yard, detailing what had happened and asking for a policeman to escort Eckerton back to his home when he left his employment.

Within ten minutes the missives were on their way, and I breathed a sigh of relief – neither Holmes nor I had been feeling up to par and in consequence had nearly forgotten about our poor client!

An hour later, I received a reply from Gregson, a rather terse, annoying message, but at least he agreed with me about the guard. I finally relaxed in my chair, checking Holmes once more. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully, not coughing as much as he had been before. I settled back and resumed my reading.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling in a few hours later, wanting to know if we needed anything and fussing very annoyingly about my injury and Holmes's illness. I dispensed with her ministrations as quickly and as tactfully as I could under the circumstances, and she soon was on her way to bed.

Around one the next morning, Holmes rolled over restlessly, coughing slightly and muttering something in his sleep. I laid my hand once again on his forehead and was relieved to find that the slight fever had seemed to have vanished.

He appeared to be having no trouble breathing and seemed to be sound asleep, and so I took the opportunity to lie down for a while on the couch, within earshot if he grew restless. And I was very grateful for the rest, for my head was throbbing rather painfully, though the bleeding had not started up again.

I must have dropped into a deeper sleep than I had intended to, due to the pain reliever I had taken just prior to lying down, for when I awakened it was broad daylight, the sun shining with a watery shimmer through the sitting room windows. I moved a little too quickly and moaned as the pain in my head reminded me of the previous day's events.

"Are you all right, Watson?" I heard a familiar voice, a little hoarse, asking me from the breakfast table.

I sat bolt upright, ignoring the throbbing in my skull, and glowered at Sherlock Holmes. He was sipping a steaming cup of coffee and grinning defiantly at me.

"Holmes, you should be in bed!" I said, thoroughly displeased.

"So should you, Watson. Now do stop your fussing and eat some breakfast!" His words were punctuated at the end with a sneeze loud enough that it rattled the china.

I sighed wearily, for I could tell that any further remonstrance from me would be useless. As I sat stiffly across from him and accepted the cup he handed me, I was very relieved to note that his eyes had lost that fevered look and that his face was no longer flushed. His voice was a little hoarse, but he appeared to only have a bad cold, nothing worse. Twelve hours of sleep had helped a good deal.

Somewhat heartened by my mental diagnosis, I rather eagerly dug into my eggs with gusto. Holmes was actually eating – a sure sign that he either was feeling better or that he wanted me to stop my pestering. I did not care which, just so long as he was eating.

"I am thoroughly frustrated, Watson," he said, clearing his throat, "we wasted the whole entire day yesterday thanks to my blundering stupidity!"

I was forced to agree with at least the former statement - we had really accomplished nothing whatsoever besides putting forth a theory about the train being a blind and learning that someone was after Eckerton for taking his case to Holmes.

"I am puzzled, Holmes, as to the motive behind the girls' abductions," I said, stirring some sugar into my coffee thoughtfully, "there have been no attempts to extort ransom from the families or the fiancées – what could be the motive, then?"

"That – _achoo_! – is the problem I shall devote the rest of this morning to solving, Watson," Holmes said, rising from the table and fumbling for his handkerchief.

As he headed for the mantle to grab his oldest and blackest pipe, I ventured a brief remonstrance about the danger of smoking when he was already coughing and such – and was met with such a baleful glare that my protests died upon my lips.

And when, two hours later, the sitting room's atmosphere set _me_ to coughing, I fled up to my bedroom, taking with me enough writing to keep me busy for a while. But before long my wound was beginning to throb unmercifully, and the painful pulsating of the blood in my head became so great that I was forced to return to the poisonous atmosphere to get another pain reliever from my bag.

The pain was growing worse instead of better as the time progressed, and I was feeling nauseous both from that and the fumes in the room, so I fumbled through my bag as fast as I could to try and locate the medicine. I broke into a coughing fit as a cloud of smoke came my way and staggered as the jarring motion sent a horrible pain shooting through my head, the throbbing clouding my vision somewhat.

Then suddenly I felt a hand on my arm.

"Watson! Are you all right, old chap?"

I was growing dizzy and Holmes grabbed me and pushed me out the door where I slid down the wall to a sitting position. I tried to repress a groan as I rubbed wearily at my forehead.

Holmes was sitting beside me, his anxious eyes not leaving my face.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," I gasped, wincing as another pain shot through my abused skull, "just – got a bit unsteady there for a moment."

"Watson, you should be resting. I did not realize the atmosphere in there was so thick – do please forgive me," he replied worriedly, watching me carefully.

I started to shake my head and stopped with a grimace. "No, no, it's fine, Holmes – I was just coming down for a pain reliever," I said, leaning gingerly back against the wall.

"I shall get it, Watson, just a minute." Holmes disappeared into the sitting room and I heard windows being opened. A moment later he reappeared with my bag and again sat beside me.

I could not help but laugh as I began to rummage through it.

"What is so amusing, Doctor?"

"We pay monthly rent for a sitting room, Holmes; yet here we are, sitting on the floor in the hallway instead of in there like we belong," I said, chuckling carefully so as not to jar my injury.

He snickered and gave me a rueful grin before sneezing once more.

I found the medicine and Holmes got me a glass of water. We were still sitting there, just chatting, when the doorbell rang with a very frantic jangling. Holmes glanced at me, and a minute later we both started as a small commotion took place in the hall. Mrs. Hudson's voice could be heard in a loud protest as well as rapid footsteps on the stairs.

A moment later, the trim figure of our client, James Eckerton, came rushing into view off the stairs. The man stopped in surprise, seeing us sitting rather undignifiedly out in the hall, but he was gasping for breath and obviously had news. Holmes scrambled to his feet, giving me a hand up, and tried to calm the man down.

"Mr. Eckerton, what has happened?" Holmes demanded.

"I – I have heard from Annie's kidnappers, Mr. Holmes!" the young man gasped, trying to catch his breath.

We had a lead at last.

* * *

**_To be continued - thanks for reading!_**


	11. Chapter 11

Our poor client was still endeavoring to catch his breath when Holmes and I recovered from the surprise of his news, and Holmes flung the sitting room door open while I took Eckerton's arm and guided him into the room.

The windows that Holmes had opened and the brisk wind from a soppy London morning had dissipated the room's rather close atmosphere and it was now approaching normality once more. I pushed Eckerton gently down on the couch as Holmes slammed the windows shut and then flung himself into his chair, leaning forward in anticipation.

"Now, Mr. Eckerton – what has happened?" he asked eagerly.

Eckerton, still breathless, pulled an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Holmes, who glanced at it, opened it and read the message, and then handed it to me.

On a plain white piece of paper, the kind found in nearly every cheap writing pad, words had been cut out from some printed work and pasted on the sheet. The message read, "_The girl is all right for now wait for orders from us_."

I handed the paper back to Holmes and waited in anticipation of the spiel of deductions I knew was to follow. I vaguely had some recollection of the Baskerville case when he had done much the same thing with a similar missive.

Holmes inspected the paper, held it up to the light, and sniffed it.

"Well, Holmes?" I asked expectantly.

"Mr. Eckerton, what type of perfume does your fiancée wear, if I may ask?" Holmes inquired abruptly.

The young man colored uncomfortably. "Rose, Mr. Holmes."

"Then at least the letter is probably true – Miss Stewart is in all probability still alive at least," Holmes said, glancing at me. I supposed he had identified the scent that even I had been able to discern on the paper.

"As to the message itself, it does puzzle me greatly. These words are not all from the same document, even though they are all extremely common words. Therefore the documents used must have been very short in word count. Odd." Holmes stopped abruptly, startling both our client and I with a violent sneeze.

"Bless you. Unless it is a blind intended to puzzle you," I offered, "they _did_ know that you had been engaged upon the case, Holmes."

He quirked an eyebrow at me in pleased surprise at my hypothesis, clearing his throat hoarsely before continuing.

"Actually, that is entirely possible, Watson. And if so, any further deductions I could make from the thing would be irrelevant. At any rate, the paper and envelope might be bought at any drugstore, and there is absolutely nothing of importance in the message itself. The words have been taken from three separate documents and glued with a simple gum paste solution on the paper by someone either in a hurry or simply careless – the gum has smeared over and around more than half the words. Nothing there that will help us."

Holmes tossed the paper back to me and then examined the envelope inside and out.

"However, there is some rather odd dust stuck to the flap of the envelope," he went on, his eyes narrowing as he pulled out his lens to study it, "and that might be a clue. In fact, it is probably the only one we have for now."

Eckerton had been silently watching us during this discourse, but now he spoke.

"Mr. Holmes, what should I do?"

"Do nothing. These men mean business, as is evidenced by the attack on you and Watson yesterday. Do nothing that would endanger your fiancée," Holmes said instantly, and I was glad to see Eckerton's face relax with relief.

"Very well, Mr. Holmes. I do not understand why they are just sending this kind of a message – why not just tell me _now_ what they want from me?"

"That is a very good question, Mr. Eckerton," Holmes said, his brows knitting, "and another strange point is why did they send the message to you instead of the girl's parents?"

I glanced at Holmes in surprise – that idea had not crossed my mind. It _was_ rather odd, now that he mentioned it.

Eckerton's face was drawn with worry as he looked to Holmes for answers, but my friend had none for the moment, engaged as he was in a violent coughing fit. The young man sighed and rose reluctantly.

"I must be getting back to the bank, Mr. Holmes – I took a fifteen minute break and I shall be late if I do not leave at once. I wanted to inform you as soon as I could. That message arrived through my letter-box in my home this morning, but this was the first time I had available to rush off and consult you."

"That was exactly what you should have done, Mr. Eckerton," Holmes said, clearing his throat once more. "Now, I shall walk you back to your place of employment, for I do not want to chance a repeat of yesterday's attack."

"_We_ shall walk him back," I said, rising as well.

"Stay here, Watson – you are in no condition to be tramping through London." This ridiculous statement was accompanied by yet another sneeze.

"I shall _not_ stay here. You are ill, Holmes, and if you are going to be running about in the wet then so am I, to keep an eye on you if nothing else," I replied stubbornly, meeting his glare with one of my own.

Finally he shrugged and handed me my revolver from the desk. I put on my coat and hat, stuffing the gun into my pocket, and I made sure Holmes was wearing his muffler as well as his coat.

The rain had stopped but the wind was still blowing as we walked down Baker Street toward Oxford.

"Mr. Eckerton, how did you and Miss Stewart meet, if I may ask?" Holmes queried, covering up a cough.

"At a mutual friend's Christmas party, this past Yuletide, Mr. Holmes," Eckerton replied, "just one of those insufferable social gatherings that either turn out to be an incredible bore or else an exercise in one's patience and ability to lie convincingly."

I nearly laughed – the sentiment sounded as if it could have come from Holmes's own lips.

"But I have to say I was glad I went, Mr. Holmes," the chap went on, his blue eyes lighting up, "for after that night I called upon Annie a few times. Her family liked me well enough and as I had a prosperous job and a good outlook upon the future, they had no objections to our getting married."

"You will not be offended if I ask you some very personal questions, Mr. Eckerton?"

"No, Mr. Holmes – not if it will help to get her back," the poor chap answered without hesitation.

"Forgive me, but we must consider every possibility, Mr. Eckerton. Do you entirely trust your fiancée? Is it possible she has been merely using you?"

I winced at the question, but Eckerton looked Holmes in the face and answered in a straightforward manner.

"I trust Annie implicitly, Mr. Holmes, for she has never given me reason to doubt her. As to her using me, what purpose would she have in doing so? Her own dowry is not inconsiderable, so it could not be my money she is after – indeed, I am by no means a rich man, not yet at least."

"Has she ever tried to get you to do anything in your business, for example, that would be considered dishonest?"

"No, Mr. Holmes, never. Such a thing would be utterly foreign to her nature, and I really should prefer that you believe that," Eckerton's voice was polite but I knew Holmes was treading on thin ice.

So engrossed was I in this conversation that I had not noticed anything outside of it, and I was surprised when Holmes suddenly grasped my arm and leaned close to me, his hoarse voice close to my ear.

"Watson, we are being observed. Take a look in that shop window, about two hundred feet back from us," he said in a low voice. I obeyed as we passed the window, and sure enough I saw two men behind us.

"The same," I told him in answer to his unspoken question, "do you suppose they will try anything while we are on such a busy street?"

"No, of course not. Which is why we are going to go into that alley there between this street and the next," Holmes said, his face twitching with suppressed excitement.

"_**What**_?"

"There are only two of them, Watson – we can easily take them. And then we shall be able to get to the bottom of who is behind this!"

Eckerton had been listening to this exchange with growing unease. "You are just going to go into that alley and wait to be attacked?" he asked incredulously.

"I must say, Holmes, that you have come up with plans in the past that I have liked a good deal better," I said, absently rubbing my aching head.

"Come along," he said intensely, taking Eckerton's arm and pushing him in front of us.

I glanced back and saw that our pursuers were closing the distance between us. Swallowing down my nervousness, I followed Holmes and Eckerton down the narrow alley.

The sun shining high above us did not send much light into the enclosed space, and I felt rather claustrophobic. Holmes pushed Eckerton up into a dark doorway and told him to be still and not make a sound that might lead to his discovery.

"But, Mr. Holmes!"

"This should not take long, Mr. Eckerton, and you shall only be in the way," Holmes hissed, glancing at the end of the alley. "Watson, act as if we are slowly walking toward the opposite end." He stifled another sneeze as we walked and shook his head as if to clear the congestion, muttering a growled curse.

I squared my shoulders and did as he said, squashing down on my uneasiness.

"There are only two, Watson," he murmured as we walked slowly, drawing the pursuit away from our client, "I shall take the tall one and you the short. Do you think you can handle him with that head injury?"

"I haven't much choice, do I?"

"Not really, Watson," he admitted, glancing over his shoulder. The men were rapidly closing in on us now, and I willed myself to keep my nerve.

"This should not be hard, Watson – remember, you have only to take out the short one," he said in a low voice.

But suddenly, from the other end of the alley, three more men out of nowhere appeared from the shadows, very effectively blocking our path and starting for us from that direction.

Now the odds were considerably worse than we had anticipated; five against two, and coming at us from both sides.

" 'This should not be hard', Holmes!? Do you have an alternate plan for getting out of this?!"

* * *

**_Oh, sorry people - 'nother cliffhanger! But honestly, they haven't been as bad as usual this story, y'know! Review anyhow, pleeeease?_**


	12. Chapter 12

"Do you have an alternate plan for getting out of this, Holmes?" I demanded shakily, very much not liking these new odds.

I could see from his pale face that he had not been anticipating this development either. But we had no time to think about anything other than watching warily as we were surrounded by five burly men.

"Where's your little client, Holmes?" the leader, the tall man I had tangled with yesterday, asked Holmes in a cool voice.

"I told him to get out of here," Holmes replied in an equally cool tone, "I should think you had better address your warnings to me."

I did not care much for the forcefulness of those 'warnings', and my aching head voiced a mental protest.

"You are going to regret this, Holmes. I warned the Doctor yesterday that you should have stopped meddling in that young upstart's case," the man stated, a malicious smile of menace breaking over his harsh face.

Holmes's eyes flashed fire. "_You_ are the ones who will regret what you did yesterday," he spat with more fury than I had heard from his lips in many a year.

Had the situation not been so grave, I should have smiled; Holmes rarely got truly, vehemently angry, and on the few occasions he had, it had always been about some mistreatment of me. My friend might not have been the most demonstratively affectionate man in the world, but he could be a veritable protective tiger where I was concerned.

"I do not think so, Holmes. _Now_, mates!"

The next few minutes were all a confused, jumbled blur to my dazed mind.

My limbs were functioning without my thinking about it, an unconscious instinct somehow bypassing my thought process. In a matter of seconds, I had jumped to Holmes's back and we faced off the group of men like we had done so many times in the past years – but the grand thing was that I had no time to think, I was merely acting on old habit.

As of old, we made sure to stand back-to-back, he swinging high and I swinging low, moving almost in synch like a well-oiled machine, never straying far from the other.

Everything happened so rapidly I had no time to even take a breath until about five minutes later, when I stood staring incredulously about me, seeing that one man lay unconscious at my feet and three at Holmes's – the other had taken off at a high panicked sprint down the alley.

I was still trying to catch my breath, trying to comprehend what had just happened, when Holmes suddenly startled me by grabbing my arm and nearly pounding my shoulder in excitement.

"Watson! Do you realize what we just did?" he cried, his eyes shining with glee.

"Besides surviving an attack like that with relatively little bruising?" I gasped, still trying to catch my breath.

"No, no, no, Watson! Don't you see!" he exclaimed, his voice vibrating with such excitement that it surprised me, "we were functioning together just as we used to in the old days!"

Then the import of what he was saying hit me with a sudden force, and a slow smile spread across my face, turning into a delighted grin.

"We did, didn't we?" I asked, looking round at our fallen foes.

"Without even thinking about it! And you were worried about our fitting back together?!" he cried with glee, clapping me on the shoulder, his wide grin matching my own.

I joined his delighted laugh as we surveyed our handiwork, such a feeling of warmth spreading over me that I had forgotten all about poor Eckerton until he came trotting down the alley a moment later.

"Holmes! Doctor! Are you all right?" he asked breathlessly.

"Oh, yes, my boy, you have no idea how right we are!"

Holmes's uncharacteristic exuberance was rather jolting to our client, and I laughed at Eckerton's incredulous expression.

"Pity the one got away," I said, glancing at the four men lying at our feet.

"He did not get away, Doctor," Eckerton said proudly, his face flushing.

Holmes and I both turned a quizzical eye upon the lad.

"I tripped him when he came past my hiding place and then snatched the club he dropped and clouted him over the head with it," the young man said with a deal of well-deserved pride.

Holmes and I shared a long look and then laughed once again.

"Well done, my boy!" Holmes cried, clapping Eckerton on the shoulder, "now, let us see if we can locate enough policemen to cart these unsavory characters down to the Yard."

I waited with my revolver over the unconscious forms of our foes, but none of them showed signs of stirring until they were already en route to the wagons. Holmes and I saw Eckerton to his bank in Regent Street, and Holmes went inside to ensure that no word had come from the kidnappers in our client's absence.

He returned a few minutes later, his brow creased in thought. And all the way to the station, Holmes said absolutely nothing, staring out the cab at the scenery with unseeing eyes.

But now, the silence was not in the least awkward, and I settled back with a satisfied smile.

In fifteen minutes we were being shown into Inspector Gregson's office. The man was none too happy to see us.

Inspector Lestrade had a healthy respect for Holmes's abilities and his help and I believe was sincerely glad to see his return to life. In addition, Lestrade had been rather a good friend to me in the last year or so, which made him considerably more amiable to Holmes than had been his wont in the past.

But Gregson, however, resented Holmes's return to life _and_ his choosing Lestrade to take the credit for the Adair murder; and the fact evidently still rankled two weeks later, for the policeman's manner was none too cordial. And Holmes never had been very good at holding his impatience with the man under normal circumstances, much less these strained ones.

"I must say, Mr. Holmes, that you are rather being a deal of trouble for us here with that confounded client of yours!" the policeman growled as he slammed a cardboard box down upon his desk with a scowl of displeasure.

"Perhaps you think I hired five thugs to try and beat up Watson and myself in an alley just now, Inspector, simply to keep you busy?" Holmes snapped.

I rolled my eyes – this was going to take rather a long time.

"All I know is, Mr. Holmes, that this was a simple, commonplace abduction – girls get taken every day from London like that young fellow's did – until you poked your long nose into the business!"

"Inspector, I can promise you that we are as eager as you to get this case out of our hands," I said wearily, "and the quickest way to do that is by finding out where these men came from."

Gregson glared at both of us, and I sighed.

"Inspector, I give you my word I want no credit for this affair – cooperate with me, and I shall be more than happy to dump all the glory in your lap," Holmes snapped, his patience wearing even thinner than before.

Gregson grumbled something I could not hear, but he did push the box across the desk towards us.

"This is all that was in those chaps' pockets, Mr. Holmes. They still refuse to say anythin' about who hired them. In my opinion, they're just hired thugs, the type we get in here every day of the week," the official stated.

"For _once_, Inspector, I am very inclined to agree with you, especially since I recognized one fellow as a leftover from the outer reaches of the Moriarty syndicate. Just a general hit man and jack-of-all-evil-trades I've run into maybe twice in my career," Holmes said, perusing through the items in the box.

"Anything interesting?"

Holmes slammed the last item back with a sigh.

"No, Watson. Wallets with a large amount of cash – they must have gotten quite a good deal of money for attempting to kill us like they did – keys, matches, assorted odds and ends. Nothing personal that might give us a clue, not even a notebook or calling card."

"Another dead end then?"

"Looks like it, old chap," he sighed wearily, a coughing fit suddenly wracking his thin frame.

As I placed a worried hand on his arm when the fit did not pass in a moment, he waved off my concern and cleared his throat hoarsely again.

Gregson's eyebrows had shot up. "Getting sick, Mr. Holmes?"

"Not _getting_, he _is_," I said, tugging on Holmes's arm; there was no more to be learnt here.

"You are not looking up to par yourself, Doctor," the policeman said, a little of the animosity leaving his voice.

"Not quite, Inspector."

"Gregson," Holmes said, pausing to sneeze into his handkerchief, "you will tell us if those men disclose anything?"

"Yes, yes," the inspector replied crossly, motioning us impatiently out the door. I for one was glad to leave the irritable man's office.

On the way down the hall, I came round the corner and slammed right into Inspector Lestrade.

"Oh, I am sorry, Inspector!"

"That's all right, Doctor, good afternoon to you! And you, Mr. Holmes," the little official said, nodding to my friend. Then, doing a double take, he asked me, "What _happened_ to you, Doctor?"

"Our first case since my return from the grave," Holmes interjected.

"Holmes, I _told_ you to stop saying that!"

The ferret-faced detective laughed along with us.

"Hum, yes, I saw you go into the ol' sourpuss's office a few minutes ago," the man grinned knowingly.

"_Achoo_!"

"Bless you, Mr. Holmes. You two are quite a pair, aren't you?" the man asked fondly, seeing the bandage partially visible under my hat and Holmes's flushed face from his violent sneezing.

"Well, we do share everything," I said with a grin at my companion, "Holmes felt so bad about my being attacked that he purposely tried to give himself pneumonia so we could feel poorly together. Was not that thoughtful of him, Lestrade?"

Holmes elbowed me, muttering for me to hold my tongue, but I could tell he was trying to hide a smirk. Nothing much could dampen our spirits after this afternoon.

"Well, I must be getting along to the morgue, gentlemen," Lestrade went on, "so good afternoon to both of you!"

"Good afternoon, Inspector," I called after the man. Holmes sneezed again and moaned dismally.

"Time for another dose of tonic, Holmes," I warned him as we entered the first cab we saw outside the station.

"No."

"Yes."

"I said no, Watson!"

"And I don't care what you said, Holmes!"

My comrade folded his arms and sat back in a huff, glaring at me, not deigning to distinguish the conversation by any further remarks.

But when I imitated his immature movements by folding my own arms and facing him in the exact same posture, it was not long before he broke into a rather hoarse laugh.

"That was rather a good fight this afternoon, was it not, Watson?" he asked, indicating by the change of converse that he was conceding to my arguments.

"Rather," I agreed with a grin.

Holmes sat back with a contented sigh – that is, until he broke into another hoarse cough.

"Ugh!" he groused, "I have never felt this miserable in my life, Watson!"

"Well, your crankiness is not making my headache feel any better either," I replied, only half-joking.

"Hmph. By the way, how are you feeling, really?" he asked solicitously, and I was conscious that his piercing gaze was scrutinizing me in order to make his own deductions about my condition.

"I would feel better if you would take your medicine without all this fuss," I said pointedly, leaning back in the seat and half-closing my eyes.

"Then I shall do it," he sighed.

I opened my eyes at the unexpected words and smiled.

"Thank you."

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	13. Chapter 13

I was inordinately pleased to see that Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word; he actually did take the cough syrup I prescribed when we had got back to the sitting room at Baker Street.

Granted, he then rushed rather childishly over to the table and downed nearly a whole pot of tepid tea to 'drown out the taste of that horrid stuff', but at least he no longer was spreading his coughing germs all over the room.

With a great noise of disgust, my companion returned to the envelope that had contained the kidnapper's note, inspecting the flap once more and then setting it down on his chemical table.

I was fumbling through my medical bag, trying to find the pain reliever that I had hastily thrown back in there upon Eckerton's whirlwind arrival earlier, rubbing at my head where the painful throbbing was increasing, and I was forced to lean on the table for a moment's support as an especially sharp pang shot through my skull.

"Watson! For heaven's sake, man, sit down before you fall down!" I heard Holmes's worried voice behind me and felt firm hands on my shoulders, pushing me into the nearest chair.

"I am not going to fall down, Holmes!" I replied wearily, "I just have a headache, that is all."

"Small wonder, too," I heard him mutter under his breath as he was digging through my bag, "I wish to heaven I had beaten the devil out of that chap earlier!"

I laughed at that, and he whirled round, not having realized I could hear his mutterings. Flashing me a guilty grin, he handed me the elusive bottle of pain reliever and fetched me a glass of water, thrusting it hurriedly at me before he turned away and sneezed once again.

"Bless you. And thank you, Holmes. What are you going to do now?" I asked, measuring out the correct dosage.

"Perform some analyses on this peculiar dust on the envelope," he replied, indicating the one on his table.

"Do those analyses involve any vile-smelling, combustible chemicals?"

"They had better not, or we very likely will no longer have the envelope upon which to experiment!" he laughed, seating himself at the table.

"Then may I watch?"

He stared at me in surprise.

"Of course, my dear chap. It could end up being frightfully boring, though."

"If so, then I shall leave," I warned him teasingly, seating myself at the opposing angle of his deal table and giving the equipment my undivided attention.

Holmes flashed me a smile, and for the next two hours, he explained with an amount of patience that astonished me his processes and what the various chemicals and instruments meant and their relation to the problem at hand.

I listened as intently as I could around the pounding in my head, just contentedly reveling in the knowledge that a good bit of that former awkwardness had finally worn off during this afternoon's events.

"What is the purpose of that?" I asked, pointing to the solution that he was very carefully mixing.

"To determine acidity," he replied slowly, his concentration on the small piece of envelope that he had snipped off.

"Have we discovered anything useful so far?"

He sat back with a sigh. "No, Watson. This appears to just be ordinary stone dust, almost like that of concrete. Here, take a look."

He vacated the chair in front of his powerful microscope and as I peered into the lens, my eyes suddenly crossed.

"Good grief, Holmes, you have a narrow head!" I gasped, shaking my blurred vision clear.

He chuckled and adjusted the eye-pieces.

"Try that."

"Ah. What am I supposed to be looking at?"

"That's just the point, Watson – all it is is dust. Cement dust," he said, frowning and sitting down in the chair I had just vacated.

"Cement? That's odd, though, is it not?"

"Well, yes, it is odd – but not necessarily a clue," he responded slowly, his eyes narrowing with concentration, "it could have no significance whatsoever."

"Where would there be concrete dust, anyhow, Holmes?" I asked, puzzled.

"Almost anywhere in the city where sidewalks are being turned up. Places of business where stone foundations or flooring are being removed or drilled into. Anywhere where construction is going on," he said, "which in a metropolis such as this could be one of a hundred places."

"Perhaps the girls are being held somewhere near where a sidewalk is being torn up," I suggested.

"One of probably two dozen areas of London. That is of no help."

"But there is something else in with the dust, Holmes," I said, peering once more into the microscope.

"Yes – but such a small quantity that unless I know what I am looking for I cannot perform the necessary tests to identify it. I could spend all day trying to figure out what the other substance is and still not hit upon it."

"Pity."

"Yes, Watson, it is simply not enough of a clue to go on. We have wasted nearly three hours in a fruitless effort to make more of a mystery than there really was," Holmes said with a strained cough, standing up and striding to the mantle to get his pipe. "Unless I can get some indication of what to look for, I cannot identify the other element there. And the concrete gets us absolutely nowhere."

I turned off the gas burner that he had forgotten to shut off and slowly walked over to my chair, my headache having returned with a vengeance. Holmes must have seen my expression of pain as I sat down rather heavily.

"Watson, why don't you go and lie down for a while?"

"I am not tired or sleepy, Holmes," I replied.

"But you are in a good deal of pain, Watson, and you are not going to be doing me or Eckerton any good if you have a relapse," he chided gently.

I snorted. "Since when have you become a doctor, Holmes?"

"Since I have a friend who is too stubborn to know when to take care of himself!" he retorted, lighting his pipe and glaring at me over its smoking bowl.

I laughed comfortably and settled down in my well-worn chair with a sigh. Holmes growled something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like 'obstinate idiot' and I nearly laughed aloud – he was hardly one to talk!

My companion seated himself at his desk and scribbled out a couple of telegrams, informing me that they were to Gregson and Eckerton, arranging another police escort just for precautionary measures. Then he opened the door, carefully shutting it so the noise would not bother my head, and _then_ bellowed for Mrs. Hudson. I cringed, knowing how much that used to scare the poor woman.

I put my throbbing head into my hands and halfheartedly tried to rub the pain away – I probably _had_ rather overdone it so soon after the injury. As a sharp flash of pain shot through my skull when I accidentally touched the wound directly, I was heartily ashamed of the small whimper that escaped my lips.

And I was even more mortified when I realized Holmes had come back into the room and had heard it. I looked up to see him crouched beside my chair, his pale face drawn with concern.

"Watson, will you _please_ go lie down?" he begged, "nothing will happen yet tonight, and if it does I shall call you on the instant, I promise."

I was actually feeling dreadful enough that I agreed without argument, and I saw the surprise at his easy victory flash swiftly across his face and then turn to a deeper worry. He gently took my elbow and guided me toward the stairs.

"You will call me if you think of anything new?" I asked, my hand on the railing.

"I shall," he nodded with a smile, "now go on, old fellow."

I went up the stairs to my room and lay down, trying to relax, but my mind was thinking too rapidly to calm down. The events of the last few days seemed more like a bad dream than anything else, so much better had things gotten after the happenings of the last twenty-four hours.

But the pounding in my head was a stark reminder that the drama was not over. Our poor client's fiancée was out there somewhere in the clutches of some as yet unidentified monster. And what of the two other girls – they were presumably in the same plight, and heaven only knew what exactly that situation was.

My mind was still reeling from the vague clues we had – the terse message and the rather pointless knowledge of the cement dust inside, the twice being attacked in the street by a group employed to warn Eckerton about employing us and to frighten us into dropping the case, the still as yet unproven hypothesis as to how the girls even disappeared from the station platforms.

And all this speculation was making my head ache even worse, and I rolled over onto my uninjured side with a groan. I should be very glad indeed when Holmes's cases returned to those ordinary little problems that were more intellectual than physical.

After a half-hour of tossing and turning in a fruitless effort to find a comfortable position, I was about to give up in despair and go back to the sitting room when my door noiselessly opened and Holmes quietly poked his head in.

"Oh, you're awake, Watson," he remarked, shutting it behind him.

"Can't sleep," I replied wearily, sitting up on the bed and then wincing as the sudden motion was a sudden pain as well.

"I am sorry, old chap," he replied, pulling up an armchair.

"Have you found anything new?"

"No," he admitted, "I just wanted to see if you were resting all right."

I was rather touched by the gesture, but he went on, his brows knitted. "There is something about this case that has been bothering me, Watson."

"I know what you mean," I replied, for the same thing had been niggling at the back of my own mind. "You know, I hate to say it, Holmes, but could not the whole thing be a cover for Eckerton himself?"

"In what way, Watson?"

"I mean, we only have his word for nearly everything – might he not have just been using us as a blind to cover up his own activities? Perhaps he is the same man, engaged to all three girls?"

"The thought had crossed my mind, Watson – but why kidnap them now, before he marries them and has their dowry? It makes no logical sense to abduct them now."

"It would if he were going to extort ransom from the parents."

"But I have telegraphed all three sets of parents, detailing the situation, and none of them have received any word whatsoever," Holmes replied, his eyes boring into the wall, deep in thought.

"True," I agreed, "and besides, it would hardly be smart to come to you in the first place, when Gregson was already dismissing his concern – that would have been all the cover he needed."

"Exactly. Besides, I pride myself on being rather a good judge of a man's character, and I would swear the chap is as honest as the day is long," Holmes said, glancing at me for approval. I nodded emphatically in agreement.

"Which brings us once again back to the inescapable fact that three girls all disappeared within a few days of each other from two different London stations. Either willingly or unwillingly, they were disguised and taken off the trains."

"But what is the motive, Holmes?" I asked, rubbing my head wearily.

"That is what I have been trying and trying to figure out, Watson. It simply is not logical."

I leaned my head back against the headboard and closed my eyes.

"I am sorry, old chap, I should not be in here making your headache worse," Holmes said suddenly, rising to leave.

I was about to make a reply when we heard a knock on the door. Opening it, Holmes accepted a telegram from Mrs. Hudson and thanked the good lady for it.

Sitting back down in the chair, he opened it listlessly and started to peruse its contents. Then his face turned dead white, and he lifted his gaze to look at me, clearly shaken by what it said.

"Holmes? What's the matter?" I asked worriedly.

He passed the yellow piece of paper over without a word, staring at the floor despondently after handing it over. I smoothed out the paper and read it – it was from Gregson. And as I did, I felt my stomach twist into a knot of horror.

REGRET TO INFORM YOU VIOLET HARWICKE AND ELIZABETH WALSH FOUND DEAD ONE HOUR AGO STOP NO SIGN OF ANNE STEWART STOP MAY I CALL AT EIGHT THIS EVENING STOP GREGSON.

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**_To be continued...please review!_**


	14. Chapter 14

"Oh, good Lord!"

I gasped in horror and looked up at Sherlock Holmes. His ashen face had gone even paler, and he would not meet my gaze, his fingers nervously tracing the pattern on my coverlet.

"We are too late, Watson, for those two poor girls at least," he said softly, tracing the soft loops of the blanket's design distractedly.

I said nothing – what was there to say? I swallowed round the lump in my throat with difficulty and tried to formulate something.

"Holmes, you may be able to glean a knowledge of the truth from the unfortunate girls' deaths, at least," I whispered, "and you might be able to yet save your client's fiancée from the same fate that befell those poor women."

"Why, Watson? Why were they killed, now, after such an amount of time?" he asked suddenly, staring distractedly at my coverlet. "Why now? What could have been the motive?"

"Perhaps we were looking too hard for a motive and the obvious one was the correct one," I said, the vulgar thought turning me sick.

"No, no, no, Watson. All my instincts are against that theory. There is more to this than just a vile intrigue. Why the whole train deception if all the abductor wanted was simply that vulgar purpose? No, Watson, there is more to this affair than that."

Holmes flung himself out of the chair and began restlessly pacing up and down my small bedroom, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes riveted on the carpet. I leaned back wearily again the pillow, my head pounding with this new development. It was nearly half-past seven now; Gregson should be arriving shortly.

We remained in those positions until Mrs. Hudson again rapped on the door, asking us if we would like some supper. I only just then realized I had not eaten since breakfast.

"Just lay something out for Watson, Mrs. Hudson," Holmes said distractedly, "we shall be down in a minute."

"Very good, sir."

Holmes had snapped out of that studious reverie and now looked at me.

"Holmes, you cannot theorize without data," I reminded him of his own maxim, "and when Gregson gets here, then perhaps you will be able to discover why they were killed. Until then, you can do nothing."

"I know that – and it is simply driving me to distraction!" he nearly shouted, then suddenly apologizing as I winced at the loud noise.

"Come along, old fellow, let us go downstairs and wait for the official forces of law and ignorance," he said with not even an attempt to disguise his derogatory sarcasm.

Mrs. Hudson had laid a cold supper for me and made a pot of tea, which I forced Holmes to at least have a cup of – his voice was once again becoming hoarse and he was starting to cough again.

Gregson arrived just a little past eight and Mrs. Hudson showed the Yarder up to see us. When the door had closed behind our landlady, the inspector collapsed into the proffered chair Holmes indicated and stared at us both, a good deal of his earlier animosity gone now.

"This is the most extraordinary thing, Mr. Holmes. We found the first two girls' bodies, together, but there is no sign of the third!" he exclaimed.

"Suppose you start at the beginning, Gregson. Where did you find the bodies?"

"In an alley in Soho," the man replied. "Common enough occurrence, finding bodies in that area, so I did not even find out about the two girls until Secker came in and told me that they had been identified by personal belongings and then family members."

"They were together, you say?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

"Cause of death?"

"One gunshot wound each, straight to the heart. No other evidences of abuse of any kind."

"That is rather unusual," Holmes perked up his ears at the news and looked at me.

"You are certain of that, Inspector?" I asked, puzzled.

"Quite, Doctor. There were no other marks on them, and they appeared to have met with no ill-treatment. Not what you would expect from abduction victims."

"No, indeed."

"That was why I thought you might be interested, Holmes. That is definitely an unusual circumstance," the Yarder told him.

"Yes, quite," Holmes said, sitting back in his chair and tapping his finger against his thin lips in thought.

"What did the girls have on their persons?" I asked, having scribbled this new information down in the journal I had left upon the table.

"Just identification cards in their handbags, a few shillings, and the usual mirrors, etc. that women always carry. Nothing of any help."

"That is extremely odd in and of itself," Holmes interjected suddenly, "for why go to the trouble of putting the girls' bags with them after the bodies were dumped in the alley?"

"The abductor must have _wanted_ them to be identified," I guessed.

"Bravo, Watson! Yes, I have no doubt that you have hit it. Inspector?"

"Yes, Mr. Holmes?"

"Have you talked to the families and fiancées personally yet?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. They have been notified by word only, not by me. I came straight round to you as soon as I got the news."

"Good. With your permission then, may I accompany you to the homes of the fiancées? I have a few questions I should like to put to them," Holmes said, bounding out of his chair and throwing on his coat.

"I had not planned upon going to the fiancées tonight, Holmes – so be my guest," Gregson groused, "I am off duty for the night in twenty minutes."

"Very good. Watson?"

"I am coming," I sighed, pocketing the journal and grabbing my own coat.

"You will keep us informed, Gregson?"

"If I do not, I suppose you will be in my office at all hours," the man grumbled testily, "so yes, of course, Holmes."

"Thank you, Inspector. Come along, Watson!"

We hailed a cab and splashed through the rain-soaked streets back toward Kensington – the Harwicke girl's fiancée Victor Huntingdon lived not far from my own old address – but I was puzzled as to why Holmes wished to speak to the fiancée instead of the girl's parents. He must have formed some theory that he had not yet shared with me.

And judging by the studious expression on his face as he stared out the front of the cab, that was not a very difficult deduction to make. I settled back with a small sigh, wishing I had taken another pain reliever before leaving Baker Street.

As the cab rattled along on its way to Kensington, I was once again mentally assailed by the fact that this was no longer the way to my home that I had so often taken from my visits at Baker Street – my home was now in our sitting room, not in this area of town any more.

I turned my collar up against the chill that was infiltrating my coat and also my mind at the less-than-happy remembrances that were now filtering back into my senses. As we passed the street upon which I used to live, I felt Holmes's piercing eyes upon me.

"You holding up all right, Watson?" he asked softly.

I nodded, closing my eyes and trying to concentrate on the problem at hand instead of memories I could not change. I felt Holmes's reassuring hand as he patted my arm and then withdrew back to his thinking processes, and I began to attempt the same analysis myself.

Why had the Stewart girl not been killed along with the other two? Was it possible that her disappearance was not linked with the others' after all? And still, we were without a plausible motive for the disappearances as well as the murders now.

I finally gave up trying to puzzle it out, sighing and rubbing my aching head, hoping we were nearly there.

"I should not have had you come along, Watson. You should be resting," I heard Holmes's worried voice next to me as he perceived my discomfort.

"Nonsense. You never have been good at taking your own notes," I said with a smile, opening my eyes to meet his.

He snorted and then chuckled as he admitted that was so. It was only a moment later that we arrived at the address of the Huntingdon chap.

I was not relishing the thought of interviewing a man who had only just lost the love of his life, and I could tell Holmes was dreadfully uncomfortable with the idea as well. But it had to be done – we were running out of time for the Stewart girl.

Holmes rang the bell of the comfortable townhouse and we were within minutes shown into a spacious study. An instant later, the man we had come to see came into the room. As was to be expected, Huntingdon looked distraught and exhausted, dark circles having formed under his eyes throughout this dreadful business.

"Have a seat, Mr. Holmes, Doctor. I take it you are here about the latest news," the man said, almost collapsing into his desk chair.

"Pray accept our deepest condolences, Mr. Huntingdon," I said quietly.

"Thank you, Doctor," the man replied, putting his chin in his hands and looking at us, "Inspector Gregson had told me last I checked that you were investigating the disappearance of some other poor devil's fiancée. I would assume there is a connection somewhere?"

"Yes, Mr. Huntingdon. I shall try to be as delicate as possible, but certain questions must be asked," Holmes said hesitantly.

The young man looked at us tiredly. "Ask what you will, Mr. Holmes, if it will bring to justice the group who did this," he said.

Holmes stiffened. "The group? Do you know then how many there are?"

The young man's face flushed an uncomfortable red, and I noticed that he appeared to be extremely nervous.

"Well, no, Mr. Holmes – I was just assuming that – that there was a group, if they had been able to abduct three different girls from moving trains," he stammered.

"How did you find out about the other two girls and the trains?"

"That police inspector told me yesterday, when I stopped by to see if there had been any new developments," Huntingdon answered.

"I see. Now, Mr. Huntingdon. Had you heard at all from the kidnappers before tonight?"

The man flushed once again, and I wondered at his nervousness.

"No, Mr. Holmes."

"You had received no word at all?"

"No, sir."

"You are lying, Huntingdon," Holmes said warningly, "I know you are lying. Whom are you trying to shield?"

"No one!" the man cried indignantly.

"Then whom are you so frightened of?" my friend demanded, "for those are the only two reasons why an honorable man would lie to someone who is trying to bring his fiancée's murderer to justice!"

I cringed at Holmes's impersonal words, but I knew that we had to get at the truth, and we had no time to play around with anything other than the facts.

"I am not frightened of anyone now, Mr. Holmes!" the poor chap snapped angrily.

"_Now_," Holmes repeated, more quietly, "then you _were_ at some point."

The fellow looked as if he were going to burst into tears at any moment, and I honestly would not have blamed him if he had. But he at the last moment pulled himself together and stared both of us down defiantly.

"I cannot help you, gentlemen."

"Why can you not, Huntingdon?" Holmes pressed earnestly, "have they threatened you if you go to the police?"

"I said I cannot help you, gentlemen. I must ask you to leave now, for I have several important matters to attend to," the man said, his face flushing once more.

Holmes was about to protest further, but I laid a restraining hand on his arm. I recognized the signs of an approaching complete emotional breakdown; we would get no more from the man tonight.

To my immense surprise, Holmes took my advice and we bid the poor young fellow good evening.

"The blithering idiot!" Holmes snarled once we were back in the cab. "His silence can do nothing to help his fiancée now! Why would he not tell us what he had found out from the gang before they killed the girl!"

"It might possibly be because he was _grieving_, Holmes," I snapped back at him, "or that they threatened to kill him if he told what he knew. Both are equally good reasons for silence!"

My friend sighed wearily. "Of course, you are right, Watson. But it is so positively infuriating! If I could just discover what the gang said to the two dead girls' fiancées before now, then I shall be able to anticipate what will happen to our client. And that could make the difference between life and death for Anne Stewart."

I fell silent, thinking about Eckerton, as our cab plodded along to the address given to us by the Walsh girl's mother, the Stover fellow's place of residence, and hoping desperately that the poor fellow would be of more help to us than Huntingdon had been.

Philip Stover was a tall young man with an honest face and a sharp appearance. Although he obviously was very distraught by the news of his fiancée's death, he was still courteous and asked us to take a seat.

"Have you been engaged upon the case to discover who is behind the murders, Mr. Holmes?" was his first question.

"Not exactly, Mr. Stover. I have been employed to find a third young man's fiancée who disappeared in the same fashion as yours did," Holmes said gently.

The young man's eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them back and faced us with a determined look.

"I will do all I can to help you, Mr. Holmes," he stated in a shaky voice, "the devils that did this must be brought to justice, no matter what the cost."

"I am very pleased to hear you say so," Holmes replied, "and since you use the term devils in the plural form, I take it you know more than you have told the police about the affair."

The young man took a shuddering breath and nodded.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. I will tell you all I know. How I wish to heaven I had come to you or the police in the first place, despite their orders not to!"

The poor chap's face was twitching with suppressed emotion, and my heart broke for him. But I was very much impressed by the way he pulled himself back under control and addressed my friend with open frankness.

"Mr. Holmes, just three days ago I received word at last from the kidnappers. I was rather surprised that the first letter had come to me and not Elizabeth's parents, but when I remembered that they really are close to penniless, I thought no more about the matter, for I was assuming that ransom was the reason for her abduction."

"But now you know why they contacted you instead of the girl's parents?" Holmes asked eagerly.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, and ransom was not the motive. I shall tell you everything I know," the fellow replied solemnly.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This is for VHunter07 - after such kind reviews for each chapter, how can I not honor a request to update quickly?**

* * *

Holmes had leaned forward in excitement, firing rapid questions at the young man, who was answering them with admirable self-composure.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes. The first message told me merely to await orders from them. The second was an explanation of what they wanted me to do if I wanted to see Elizabeth again." Stover's voice broke on the last word and he swallowed with difficulty.

"Take your time, lad," I interjected, throwing Holmes a warning glance. Stover shook his head and went on, dismissing my concern with a shaky wave.

"The second missive I received told me that there was only one thing I had to do, and if I performed it without error, then all would be well," the man said.

"Which was?"

"To leave the combination to the vault of the bank in which I am an integral part, at a specified place near my home the night before last," the man whispered.

I started in surprise – the combination to a bank vault?

Holmes had also stiffened, but in scarcely suppressed excitement rather than shock.

"Did you do this?" he asked, hiding a deep cough behind his hand.

Stover dropped his gaze.

"Yes," he admitted, "I had no choice. Even going to prison for a federal offense would be better than living with the guilt that I was the cause of my fiancée's death, Mr. Holmes."

The free admission was made without guilt, only grief and regret. And I for one did not blame the poor fellow at all.

"I do not understand, then, Mr. Stover," Holmes began, "if you did what they asked –"

"There was a problem, Mr. Holmes. My superiors had changed the vault combination that very afternoon and I was not aware of it," the man said, his eyes filling with tears once more.

"So you gave them the wrong one," I said gently, a cold weight settling at my heart in sympathy for the young fellow.

"Yes, Doctor. Unknowingly, but I did. And they must have thought I was trying to double-cross them," the man said shakily, "and –" he stopped, unable to go on.

"I am so very, very sorry, Mr. Stover," Holmes said softly, an unaccustomed tactfulness seeming to take over his eager nature. The poor fellow nodded sadly.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I have not heard from the gang since that last message," he went on, choking back his tears, "and although I am very glad that nothing happened in the bank because of my superiors' precautions, I do wish things had been different."

"I am very sorry, Mr. Stover, but I must ask you a few more questions," Holmes told him hesitantly.

"Pray go ahead."

"Did you keep this last message you received from the abductors?"

"No, Mr. Holmes. I was ordered to destroy it, and I did so. Bu I can tell you what it said. Just that I was to do as I have already told you, to leave the combination in an envelope under a loose stone in my garden near the sundial and not watch to see who picked it up. I was told not to call in the police or any outside help if I wished to – to see Elizabeth again."

The lad swallowed hard and looked at us. Holmes sneezed rather forcefully and then went on in his questioning.

"Do you have any idea at all who the men are behind this?"

"None, Mr. Holmes. It seems to me to be an elaborate plot to get into the bank – I cannot of course disclose to you how much money we exchange during a day's time, but I can tell you that vault would hold enough cash at the end of a day to tempt any man," Stover told us solemnly.

"We shall not force any more of this painful conversation on you, Mr. Stover," Holmes said finally, "I do thank you very much for your time – I know this could not have been easy on you."

"And your information may save the life of another unfortunate young lady," I added, shaking the brave fellow's hand on my way out.

"Bring them to justice, Mr. Holmes – that is all I ask," he said soberly.

"I shall, you may rest assured of it. With your help, I shall lay a net around them that no one can escape from," Holmes said with earnestness.

It was with a heavy heart that I climbed up beside Holmes into the cab we had left waiting for us.

"That poor chap," I sighed sadly, "what a dreadful time he is going to have of it."

Holmes's grey eyes were flashing with a thinly veiled indignation.

"This has been a despicable affair from beginning to end, Watson!" he snapped. "I have been slow, and stupid, and blind as a mole! I even remarked to you about the bank connection in the beginning, did I not!"

"Yes, you did – but we have had many things to occupy our time since then," I replied in a patient remonstrance.

"That matters naught, Watson! I have been slow and clumsy. Why did I even return to practice?" he moaned dismally, slumping back in his seat with a hoarse cough.

"_What_?" I gasped in shock.

"I have no right to break back upon the investigative scene, Watson, if I am as blind and slow as all that," he said quietly, and I was shocked to hear the – was it _insecurity_? – in his shaky voice as he spoke.

I suddenly realized that I was not the only one who had been feeling those emotions of doubt, uncertainty, and fear of change. Holmes was every whit as insecure and as lost as I – he merely did not show his fears as readily as I did.

"I should never have returned to active practice, Watson," he murmured, staring moodily out at the passing gas-lamps, "I should have foreseen this inescapable solution hours ago. How could I be so slow?"

"Holmes. Listen to me. You have not had an active London criminal case in over three years. You cannot expect to be able to simply drop back in where you left off," I said, voicing the same opinions that had been so frightening me earlier in the week.

He looked at me with tired eyes.

"You cannot expect to be in full use of all your powers at the re-genesis of a career, Holmes," I went on, "and besides, you had no way of foreseeing or preventing those deaths, because even if you had deduced the intent of the gang, you would never have been able to find the girls in time."

He sighed. "Perhaps not, but I still cannot help but feel that –"

"That nothing, Holmes. You have not yet failed in the case," I replied, "for Eckerton's fiancée is not yet in any danger of meeting the fate of the other two girls. He has not as yet received any notice from the gang about breaking into the bank's secrets."

"But if he does receive the word, Watson, then he will not tell us," Holmes pointed out.

"Probably not, but I still would wager all I own on the fact that he is not yet hiding anything from us – he is simply too honest, Holmes, to be able to lie convincingly like that," I said.

Holmes nodded thoughtfully, clearing his congested throat with another cough.

"So do stop beating yourself up over the case, old man," I said quietly, "for you have done everything that any man _could_ have thus far, and more than most men ever _would_ have done. We are not beaten yet."

He glanced at me, and a small twitch of a smile quirked the edges of his thin lips.

"I never get your limits, Watson," he remarked quietly, settling back in the seat and narrowing his gaze as the thought processes of his formidable mind dropped a veil over his features once more.

The rain started up once again as we traveled through the streets, placing an even worse damper on our spirits after this evening's sordid events. I was very glad when I saw Baker Street looming out of the pouring rain. It had to be getting on half-past ten or so, and I for one was going to be glad to take a large pain reliever and go to bed.

Holmes, however, jumped down from the cab, paid the driver absently, and opened the door, paying no attention to the rain driving in. He dropped his coat in the hall and stalked up the stairs to the sitting room, and I could see from his manner that he was going to spend another sleepless night in berating himself for what he regarded as his personal failure in the case.

With a tired sigh, I followed him up to the room after hanging our dripping coats on the hooks and went to my medical bag for a pain reliever. Holmes was in such a black mood that he did not even notice what I was doing and he made no return when I wished him good night. It was with a rather despondent heart that I made my way up to my bedroom and attempted to fall asleep.

My dreams were haunted all that restless night long by uneasy visions of past cases and criminals as well as the events of this first case since Holmes's return, and I did not sleep well at all. It seemed as if I had just dropped off for what must have been the dozenth time when I was awakened abruptly by Holmes's shaking my shoulder.

"Watson. Watson, wake up – our client is here."

I sleepily tried to swat his hand away but he shook me again. Then suddenly I came fully awake and sat up, looking at him.

"Eckerton is here, Watson, and he is – well, distraught. I need you to help deal with him," Holmes said, his eyes betraying a deep unease.

"What time is it?" I asked sleepily.

"Half-past seven. He has to be at work in an hour, doing accounts before the bank opens, so he came here on his way to Regent Street. Now do hurry," Holmes said, leaving the candle he held on my bedside table and vanishing out the door.

This was another thing I really had _not_ missed from this past life – this being awakened at all sorts of ungodly hours to deal with frantic clients. My mood was not very cheery as I struggled into my clothes and shoes and hurried down the stairs, trying to blink the remnants of that disturbed sleep out of my eyes.

Holmes was trying to coax some life into the fire, for the temperature had once again dropped with last night's rain, and Eckerton was in the process of consuming a cup of coffee from a pot that Holmes must have routed poor Mrs. Hudson out of bed to make.

"I am so dreadfully sorry to trouble you at this hour of the morning, Doctor," Eckerton said, rising upon my entrance, "especially as I know both you gentlemen are somewhat not feeling well because of this infernal case, but I have nowhere else to turn."

"That is what we are here for, lad, so do not trouble yourself about it," I replied, pouring myself a cup of coffee and trying to stifle the yawn that sprang to my lips unbidden.

"The fact is, that I just read in this morning's early paper about how they found those other two girls in Soho," our client said nervously, glancing back and forth between Holmes and me, "and I have been near-frantic with worry. Do you know anything about them, Mr. Holmes? Have they found any trace of Annie? Can you –"

"Eckerton, you must calm down," I said soothingly, putting a restraining hand on the young chap's arm, "and remain in control."

"I am sorry, gentlemen. Mr. Holmes?"

"I have a little news, Mr. Eckerton, but not of your fiancée, unfortunately," Holmes said regretfully, "I have found out why the girls were abducted and why they were murdered, however."

"You have?"

"Yes – in fact, I am rather glad you stopped by this morning, for I was just about to send for you to warn you of the gang's possible intentions toward you," my friend replied, breaking into a hoarse cough and then evading my meaningful gaze.

"Toward me, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, Eckerton. This gang abducted those other two girls, and I am sure your fiancée as well, to use them as leverage toward their fiancées. Like yourself, the other two young men worked in bank branches here in London. They were told through a series of two messages that if they wanted to see their fiancées again, they were to provide information to the gang that would aid in an enormous bank robbery."

"But there have been no bank robberies in the last week," Eckerton returned, confused, "so what – oh, dear lord."

"Quite. That is why the unfortunate women were killed. One at least, was due to a misunderstanding. The young man tried to do as he was told and unknowingly provided the wrong information. I was unable to get the other man to talk to me about the affair."

"Then – then you think they will contact me at some point, Mr. Holmes?"

"I think it a definite certainty at this time in the case, Mr. Eckerton. And when they do, you cannot risk your fiancée's life by telling us. You must somehow get word to us, however, and you must then trust me to take the case from there."

Eckerton's honest face had gone dead-white.

"But –"

"It is essential, Mr. Eckerton. When you receive word from the kidnappers, do exactly as they say, even if it means breaking the law and giving them information about your bank."

"But that is a federal offense!"

"When I bring them to justice, you will be acquitted in the interest of solving the case. Have no fear upon that score. Besides, Miss Stewart's life will depend solely on your behavior at that point. I will be helpless until I hear from you."

Eckerton nodded a little nervously.

"When you receive the letter, you will probably be told to destroy it. Do not do so, but rather keep it on your person. Now here is my plan, Eckerton, and listen closely."

Holmes began to outline the plan of action that must have been forming in his mind all this night as he sat up smoking and pacing. He had already assigned one of our little Baker Street Irregulars – they were not so little now as they had been several years ago! – to be Eckerton's shadow.

Once Eckerton received the note, he was to leave wherever he was and carry his gloves in his left hand. That would be the signal to the little street urchin. The lad would 'accidentally' bump into Eckerton in the street, and Eckerton was to drop his hat. As the lad would pick it up and hand it to him, he would invisibly exchange the note for the headgear and then keep on his way. The Irregular would then make with all speed back to our sitting room.

"And then what, Mr. Holmes?"

"Then you must do exactly as they say, no matter what it is," Holmes directed him, "for your fiancée's life will be in your hands. And you must trust me to take matters from there."

"Very well."

"Do not try to contact me in any way after you receive that note."

"Yes, sir."

"Once I have a trap laid, I shall contact you. Now, you must be getting on, sir, or you shall be late for your work." Holmes said briskly, rising to show out our client.

"Be brave, lad," I said to him, shaking his hand reassuringly, "all will be set right if you do as Holmes says."

"I shall. Thank you both," the poor chap replied nervously, following Holmes down the steps to the front door.

I heard the door open and then shut, then Holmes's footsteps coming rapidly back up the stairs and a very violent sneeze – that cold was lingering longer than either of us liked.

I sighed tiredly, sinking down in my chair and closing my eyes. My headache was slightly better this morning despite the lack of sleep, and I thought I might be able to take the bandage off later, since the stitches appeared to be holding nicely.

Holmes re-entered the room, tossing the morning papers into a pile on the floor beside his armchair and pouring himself another cup of coffee. I watched in amusement as he tried it, grimaced, then added an outrageous amount of sugar to the drink and walked over to his chair.

My companion collapsed rather than sat down, staring moodily into the fire, all the business-like energy from his instructions to Eckerton having deflated from his manner like air from a balloon. Mrs. Hudson came in a few moments later with a breakfast tray, and I tried to cajole Holmes into eating something only to be refused point-blank.

He remained in his chair by the fire, morbidly reading and re-reading the accounts of the girls' murders from the papers while I tried half-heartedly to pick at my food.

Another loud sneeze broke the deathly silence in the room, and I saw him hunch up in his chair miserably, shivering a little. I set down my fork, entered his bedroom, yanked a blanket off his still-made bed, and returned to the sitting room, silently placing it over his thin shoulders and then returning to my meal without waiting for his murmured thanks.

For another twenty or thirty minutes the small clatter of my silverware and china was the only other thing to break the silence other than his occasional coughing fits. But then, so suddenly that I jumped in surprise, nearly dumping an entire cup of coffee all over my dressing-gown, Holmes leapt to his feet, the blanket fluttering to the floor unheeded, and jumped over to his chemical table.

"That other element, Watson!" he cried, hastily seating himself and grabbing for the piece of envelope, "that other element! If I am right –"

"Right about what?" I gasped, hastily dabbing with a napkin at the mess I had made in my startlement.

"I could not see why these people went to all the trouble to get the safe combinations from these young men, if all they wanted was the money from the bank vaults," Holmes cried, starting up the gas burner.

"Why not?" I asked, coming over to sit at the table opposite him.

"Because, Watson – if they wanted the money, they could simply do what most normal bank robbers would do; overpower the guards and break into the vault. Getting the combination might expedite the process by an hour or so, but it hardly warrants the effort necessary to kidnap three young women so smoothly and then to extort help from their fiancées."

Now that he said that, it did seem to make sense to me.

"But what was the reason then for getting the combinations to the vaults?" I asked.

Holmes began to mix together a few chemicals, and I warily kept an eye out for any unusual reactions starting to take place.

"The only plausible reason could be, Watson, that these people wanted into the vaults for some reason but did not want anyone to _realize_ that they had gotten into them," Holmes said, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he worked.

"I don't follow."

"Half a moment, old chap, this takes a deal of concentration." Holmes went back to his experiment and I waited impatiently.

Finally, he poured a drop of the liquid he had been mixing onto the envelope, and he gave a cry of satisfaction – evidently the reaction was what he had been wanting to see.

"I have it, Watson!" he cried, clapping his hands with all the glee of a happy child, "I have it at last!"

"Have what?!" I demanded.

"This other substance, Watson. It is an amalgamation of copper and zinc," he said, his eyes dancing with triumph.

"Umm, right. Why is that so exciting?"

"Because, Watson, that particular combination has only been found, in my experience at least, in the vicinity of _counterfeiters_!"

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**_To be continued - thanks for reading!_**


	16. Chapter 16

"_Counterfeiters?_" I gasped.

"Exactly, Watson! That amalgum is a common mixture found often ground into the clothing, etc., of anyone making counterfeit coins. That is the motive that has been staring me in the face this entire time, Watson! Such a fool I have been!"

"But I still do not follow you, Holmes."

"Watson. It would make no sense to go to all this trouble just to rob a bank, correct?"

"Yes, I follow that far, I just don't see –"

"But what if this gang could gain entrance to the vault and replace the money inside with counterfeited currency?" Holmes asked, leaning forward in his intensity.

My jaw dropped in amazement.

"That is preposterous!"

"No more preposterous than the Red-Headed League or any other of our really strange cases, Watson," Holmes pointed out, "it makes perfect logical sense! Replace the currency with false money, and you can flood the London population with it – and it would be coming from the one place in the city that people would actually trust, a bank!"

I stared at my friend, the import of what he was saying finally hitting home with me.

"And if this gang had succeeded in infiltrating three separate banks with this counterfeit money, then all London would be in an uproar and completely unable to trace the source. Even if these poor young clerks suspected what had happened, they could not take any action without drawing a noose around themselves. It is a brilliant plot, Watson!"

I was forced to agree with him, my mind reeling at the thought of what would have happened if the plan had come off as the gang had intended.

"And you believe that Eckerton will be contacted soon about his bank?" I asked.

Holmes put away the chemicals he had been working with.

"Yes, I do. The gang will be sure to know that he will have seen the papers and will be even more terrified and willing to listen to them than he was before. Besides that, today is Saturday. If an attempt is going to be made on a bank, Saturday evening is the best possible time to do so, for it gives them a whole day to cover their tracks before Monday morning reveals what has occurred."

"Or, in this case, does not reveal what has occurred," I added, rising from the table and preparing to head to my room to shave and prepare for what was promising to be a long day.

"Do not go anywhere today, Watson," Holmes said, lighting his pipe, "for as soon as we receive word from Eckerton we shall have to move fast if we are to spring a trap tonight."

I nodded and headed up to my room, leaving Holmes puffing away on that pipe and pacing up and down in front of the windows of our sitting room. After freshening up, I felt a good deal more awake.

I carefully removed the bandage from my head, very pleased to see that the deep wound appeared to be healing nicely; the stitches were holding and there appeared to be no sign of infection. I carefully combed my hair in a rather unsuccessful attempt to disguise the injury but finally gave up in despair, returning to our sitting room.

I weaved and dodged around Sherlock Holmes as he paced aimlessly, sneezing once and sniffling dismally, not even seeing me, and I seated myself at my desk with my journal, wanting to fill in the gaps of this case while the details were still fresh in my mind.

I had been sitting there scribbling for over an hour when there was a sudden pounding of small feet upon the stairs and a startled shriek from Mrs. Hudson. It took no great powers of deduction to assume the arrival of one of our little street urchins. And a moment later, Holmes and I both turned as a lad burst into our sitting room.

I stared in amazement – Wiggins had sprouted growth in the last three years like a weed, and he was no longer the little chap I had remembered. The lad had to be close to his teens now, and I caught myself staring rather rudely at his face, which had lost much of its youthful chubbiness.

"Hullo, Doctor!" the lad cried, "good ta see you again, sir!"

"You too, my boy – you have certainly grown!" I gasped, getting over my shock at the sound of the boy's voice, as mischievous and impish as ever.

"All right, Wiggins. What have you got?" Holmes directed his question to the lad.

"Can oi 'ave a scone, Mr. 'Olmes?"

I laughed at Holmes's incredulous and frustrated expression and passed the half-empty breakfast tray to the boy. Wiggins stuffed one scone in his mouth and the other three in his pockets and then turned back to my friend.

"Ta, Doctor. All roight, Mr. 'Olmes, 'ere's the note the bloke gave me. 'E come flyin' outa that bank like the ol' boy 'imself was after 'im, not 'alf an hour after 'e arrived," Wiggins said, handing a battered envelope to Holmes.

"Good lad, Wiggins. Stay here, I may need you in a moment," Holmes said absently, opening the envelope.

"Coffee, Wiggins?" I asked, eyeing Holmes's reaction. He was oblivious.

"Oi, ta, Doctor," the lad said, seating himself at the table and taking the cup I offered eagerly.

Holmes scanned the letter quickly and then passed it to me. It had been typewritten this time, not cut and pasted, and was short and terse, much as that Stover fellow had described his own letter.

_If you wish to see your fiancée again alive, you will follow these instructions to the letter. On your lunch break, you will leave the combination to the vault of the Regent Street branch of the Bank of England in an unmarked envelope under the doormat of your home. Do not remain around to watch the house and make no attempt to contact Mr. Sherlock Holmes, or the girl will suffer the same fate as the others._

The curt missive was unsigned. I looked up at Holmes, who was puffing silently away at his pipe, engaged in deep thought. I absently stopped Wiggins from drinking a fifth cup of coffee and spoke.

"Holmes? What are we going to do now?"

His face was weaving, I could tell, between a deep indecision.

"Shall oi go watch the 'ouse, Mr. 'Olmes, an' see 'oo comes ta pick up th' letter?" Wiggins asked, snitching a lump of sugar from the bowl on the table.

Holmes looked at me doubtfully, asking my opinion without speaking.

"Can we risk it, Holmes?"

He sighed. "I do not think so, Watson. It is just simply too dangerous. We cannot afford to put the girl in danger when there is another way out."

I heaved a sigh of relief. "I concur entirely."

"Good. Wiggins?"

"Yes, Mr. 'Olmes?"

"I want you to hang about the house here for a while. The Doctor and I need to cogitate a plan of action, and I need you to remain absolutely silent while we do so. I shall have some errands for you momentarily."

"Roight, Mr. 'Olmes. Can oi look a' yer skeleton there in th' corner?"

We both laughed. "You can look at anything of mine, Wiggins, just do not touch the chemicals or Watson's books," Holmes told the lad with a smile.

Holmes swept the dishes off the table onto the floor and began to scribble out some plans on a piece of paper, occasionally glancing at a few diagrams he had drawn. I seated myself beside him, a deep excitement growing within my heart at the thought that the game truly was afoot now, that we were at last on the scent and it was a warm one.

Before the night was out, we should hopefully have caught the villains in the act of breaking into the Bank.

"Wiggins! Don't do that!" Holmes snapped suddenly, seeing that the lad was standing on the back of my armchair to inspect the photograph of the Reichenbach Falls that hung above our fireplace.

I hid a smile – patience with children had never been my comrade's strongest character trait.

"Sorry, Mr. 'Olmes."

"Here, Wiggins, I need you to take this message at once to Inspector Gregson. Make sure you are not followed, do you understand? And then get right straight back here; I have need of you."

"Roight, sir," the boy replied, grabbing another lump of sugar before scampering down the stairs, frightening Mrs. Hudson as of old with his careless boisterousness.

"I have asked Gregson to supply me with a list of how many guards are involved in that branch of the Bank, Watson," Holmes said to me, pointing to a diagram he was drawing, "so that we know what we are up against. These men still have to get past the guards in order to get at the vault."

"That puzzles me, Holmes, because how are they going to do so without the guards knowing something happened? Is not secrecy the whole point of the thing?"

"Exactly, Watson. That is something we have to find out. There are probably not many guards around that branch, however, for to my knowledge no one has ever made an attempt at burglary on that branch of the Bank; they try for the really large branches further on in the capital."

"But even so, Holmes," I said, my forehead wrinkling with concentration, "it would still take an enormous amount of time to get all that currency in and out of the vault. They cannot just walk in and out of the front door with boxes of coins!"

Holmes slammed his pen down on the table and stared at me.

"What?"

"The dust! The concrete dust, Watson! We both saw but did not observe it yesterday!"

"What about it?"

"There were repairs being done to the sidewalk in front of the Regent Street branch of the Bank!"

"And you think the dust came from there? Are you accusing Eckerton?"

"No, no, no. Do you not see, that with all the noise they would be making these past weeks in tearing up the sidewalks, that any other noises, such as tunneling, would have been very effectively covered?"

I stared at Holmes. "Like in the Red-Headed League?"

"Something of the kind. At any rate, there has to be another entrance besides the doors that they would get the cash out through. It might not necessarily be an actual tunnel, just a large enough opening in a wall or floor to smuggle the boxes through without being caught by the patrolling guard," Holmes replied, shoving the diagram over to me.

I inspected it as he continued.

"When I walked Eckerton in there yesterday, I took careful notice of the layout. Here is the front desk and here, the tellers' cages. To this side, along these two corridors, are the offices. Eckerton's office is the first one, here where I have marked an X. And in the very back, up against the wall, is the vault."

He indicated the spot with his ink pen.

"Is the vault entrance visible from the foyer?"

"No. It is hidden by a corridor connecting with the right office hallway – I asked Eckerton about the layout when we went in yesterday." Holmes drew in pencil the outline of the shielding corridor.

"Then unless a guard came round the corner, he would not see anyone coming in or out of the vault."

"Correct, Watson. So actually, the counterfeiters could hide anywhere along this office corridor if need be – the entrance could be in any one of those offices. Even Eckerton's himself."

"The how in the world can we lay a trap if we do not even know where to look?"

"It is going to be very, very tricky," Holmes said worriedly, tapping the pen against his lower lip in deep thought. "We cannot simply walk into the Bank at any point today, for that would put Eckerton and the girl in danger."

I nodded.

"We shall have to get Gregson to lay out our plans. And it will have to be carried out with great delicacy – if the men get the wind up over our ideas, then the whole thing will be off."

"And the Stewart girl will suffer the same fate as those other poor women," I added, thinking of our client and praying Holmes's schemes were going to work.

We had to be so very, very careful – we were treading on extremely thin ice now.

* * *

**_To be continued..._**


	17. Chapter 17

Holmes sat back in his chair, his eyes riveted on the tablecloth, obviously deep in thought. He remained in that position for nearly a half-hour, until Wiggins came scrambling back up the stairs wielding a reply from Gregson.

Holmes snatched the missive from the lad and motioned him to a chair.

"Only two guards, Watson, in tandem," he said, tossing the paper to me and snatching up his diagram once more, "so this would not be as difficult as one would think. They could then simply gradually cart the boxes out after the guards make their rounds and take them to some office, waiting until they passed the next time before emerging again."

"And in the locked office they exchange the bad money for the real thing."

"Exactly. In fact, the offices are probably the best bet for their hiding place – I doubt the guard does anything other than simply check the doors to see if they are locked. Here now, Wiggins! I said_ don't touch the chemicals_!"

The lad guiltily replaced the beaker that he had picked up, and I breathed an immense sigh of relief that Holmes had caught him in time – it was filled with hydrochloric acid!

"So, if they had a dark lantern, then two or more of them could stay in the office, exchanging the currency –"

"While the others keep a lookout for the guards and keep carting the boxes back and forth," Holmes finished, "if there were enough of them, and they were efficient enough, it would only take a few hours for a goodly amount of money to exchange hands."

There was a crash behind us and I cringed, not wanting to know what Wiggins had done now. I chanced a peek as Holmes moaned, and saw that the boy had accidentally knocked over pieces of the chess set that stood on Holmes's desk.

"Wiggins…" Holmes said warningly.

The boy's face flushed and he hastily sat on the couch, looking at us innocently. I had to laugh at both the lad's expression and my friend's.

Holmes sat back down at the table and motioned for me to do so as well. As he pored earnestly over the diagrams, scribbling notes on a piece of foolscap, I was reminded of a general, plotting a battle. And if that analogy were true, then I was his chief-of-staff, and the thought brought even more excitement to my heart. This was truly like the old days.

"Now, Watson. We shall have to get Gregson in on this plan, without it looking as if we knew more than we did yesterday about it. In case we and Eckerton are being watched, we cannot act as if we know about this at all," Holmes told me.

I nodded, showing I understood.

"We will somehow get Gregson in on the thing, and we have to formulate a plan. Gregson will have to get the Bank to allow us access to it tonight. The guards will be called off and replaced with Gregson's men, allowing the people clear access to the vault without being caught. You and I and Gregson will secrete ourselves in one of the offices in the right wing."

"After the bank closes, you mean."

"Yes, of course. Eckerton and all the rest cannot know about it – they might let it slip somehow that something odd were going on."

"And we will wait for the men to show up?"

"It in all probability will not be that simple, but in theory yes. Wiggins! Leave that alone!"

The boy had gotten into my medical bag and was attempting to use my stethoscope on himself.

"It's all right, Holmes, he can play with it," I laughed. Then, in a confidential tone, "It will keep him occupied, you know."

Holmes shook his head, clearing his congested throat and moaning dismally.

"But Holmes," I went on, "we have no idea where that other entrance is that they will be using – therefore we cannot block it like we did the pawn shop in the Red-Headed League affair. Suppose the chaps escape through it? Then we might not be in time to rescue the girl!"

Holmes's face had darkened, for he had already thought of that.

"We have no choice, Watson. I do not like it, either – but there is no alternative. We shall simply have to hurry."

"Can we get Eckerton in on the game, after he leaves for the evening?" I asked suddenly.

"I am not sure that is wise," Holmes said thoughtfully.

"He could be of use, especially when we find the Stewart girl," I said, "she is rather likely to be hysterical."

Holmes winced at the thought.

"I suppose I could send Wiggins after him when he leaves and he could join us after we get settled."

"I believe he would prefer that," I agreed.

"Now, if we capture all the villains from the Bank, then I am sure we will be able to find out where they are holding the girl," Holmes went on, "but if not –" he sprang to his feet and began rummaging around for his most detailed map of London.

I glanced at Wiggins, who appeared to now be occupying himself by taking his own temperature. The fact that he had the wrong end of the thermometer in his mouth brought a smile to my face.

Holmes was about to start destroying the file cabinet when I cleared my throat.

"Holmes?"

"What?"

"Try the umbrella stand, won't you?"

He straightened up with a rueful smile. "Wiggins, be a good chap and fetch the detailed London map from the umbrella stand downstairs."

"Right, Mr. 'Olmes," the boy replied, dropping the thermometer back into my bag, "can oi ask Mrs. 'Udson for some fruitcake?"

I hid a smile as Holmes's face flushed red with impatience.

"You may do whatever you like, Wiggins, but get that confounded map up here!"

The lad snickered at my friend's exasperated expression and scampered down the stairs. A minute later, he reappeared in the doorway with a rolled-up map in one hand and the largest piece of cake I had ever seen in the other. I smiled again – our landlady was exceedingly soft-hearted.

Holmes snatched it from the boy with a muttered thank-you and spread it on the table, scribbling a circle around the bank on Regent Street.

"Hmm," he said to himself, inspecting the surrounding areas, "somehow I believe, because of that dust in the envelope, Watson, that the girl is being held somewhere around the Regent Street area."

"But that can't be taken as fact, Holmes, for there are, as you said, many places around the city where sidewalks are being torn up," I replied worriedly.

"Yes, I know," he said, glancing up at me, "but I cannot see them keeping the girl very far from Eckerton – they would need to be able to get to her within a short time if they are to use her as persuasion. But as you said, we cannot be sure."

My friend slumped back in his chair, staring at the map moodily.

"Did you inspect the second note for any further clues, Holmes?"

"Yes, Watson. Nothing can be gleaned from that other than the fact that the typewriter is at least five years old and the letter was typed by a right-handed person; the letters on the right side of the keyboard are considerably darker than those typed from the left side. Nothing that helps us at all."

"Then, I suppose all we can do is lay a trap and hope we get all the gang tonight, before they can get to the girl?" I asked hesitantly.

"Yes. Surely one of the men we shall capture will have information on him or some clue from which I can deduce the location of the girl's whereabouts," Holmes said, his brow clearing somewhat, "one of them must have _something_. I will have data to work with then. I have none now. Wiggins!"

The boy whirled round, caught in the act of inspecting my revolver on the table with an awe-struck expression.

"Do not _ever_ pick up a gun unless you know it is not loaded, Wiggins!" I exclaimed, worried that the boy's inquisitive nature had gotten ten times worse in the last three years.

"Sorry, Doctor," he muttered.

"All right, Wiggins, I need you to take this note back to Gregson," Holmes said, scribbling rapidly on a piece of paper he had torn from the back of my journal, "tell him to meet us at this restaurant in the Strand, and make sure he is not followed. Then you make yourself scarce, lad, and meet Dr. Watson and me back here at five o'clock this evening, hear?"

"Yes, sir," the boy said, taking the letter as well as the shillings Holmes handed him, his eyes bugging out with pleasure at the large scale of pay.

"Now, off with you," Holmes said, judging the boy to the door. When the front door had closed behind him, my friend turned to me, covering up another sneeze.

"_Achoo_! Ugh. Anyhow, Watson. We shall meet Gregson for lunch in an hour and a half and start planning out campaign. You had better clean that revolver, for we shall most definitely need it before the evening is over."

I spent the next bit of time doing so, and then Holmes and I prepared to go out to meet Gregson. As we walked, Holmes peered often round us anxiously, but it seemed that no one was following us. We still kept a precautionary eye out, however, as we made our way to the restaurant in the Strand.

Gregson had already arrived and secured a table, and the Yarder seemed to actually be glad to see us.

"You've got something, then, Holmes?" he asked eagerly as we seated ourselves.

Holmes glanced round to see if anyone appeared to be listening to our converse, but no one seemed to be.

"Yes, Inspector." Holmes went on to detail all that we had found out about the banks to the man and then my friend outlined his plan for the evening to the officer.

"Then we'll have them, the whole lot of them!" Gregson exclaimed when Holmes had finished.

"We should," my friend agreed, "and from them we should be able to deduce or extort where the Stewart girl is being held. And even if one gets away, we should be able to follow him to the place. Either way, we have them."

The waiter came up at this point to take our orders, and Holmes dropped the conversation until he was out of earshot. Then he went on, detailing the fine points of his plan to Gregson.

"You have to listen and remember all of this, Inspector, because we cannot risk contacting you again," Holmes said intensely, drawing another diagram on a sheet from my notebook.

The man nodded, apparently so eager to end the case that his animosity was forgotten for the time being.

"Watson and I shall meet you in this alley outside the bank tonight just before eight o'clock," Holmes said, "the bank closes at six but it will not get dark until after seven, and the gang will certainly not try anything until it is pitch black outside. Leave a man there in the alley to let us into the back entrance of the place."

"Right, Mr. Holmes."

"We shall meet you inside and see if we can find that second entrance. If we can, then we will station ourselves accordingly nearby. If not, then we shall just choose a room within earshot of the vault. You will have two of your men replace the guards?"

"Yes."

"Good. Make their rounds appear perfectly normal – we do not want to give the show away in any possible way. This has to go off without a hitch."

"Very good, Holmes."

"I shall send Wiggins to get Eckerton when we leave for the bank – keep your man in the alley even after we arrive to direct the young fellow inside as well."

"I shall have one man there, and two watching each entrance. Others shall be hidden round the block in plainclothes. They won't slip through our fingers, Holmes."

"I certainly hope not, Inspector. For all our sakes," Holmes returned solemnly.

* * *

**_To be continued...please review!_**


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: I know this is a short chapter, but it was crucial to the development of the psycho-analysis, so bear with me. We're in the homestretch now!**

* * *

We finished our meal and our plan of battle with Gregson, and then the policeman hurried off back to the Yard to begin putting the official wheels in motion in order for the night's events to go off without a hitch.

I was feeling nervous and uneasy about the whole risky affair myself, and I believe Holmes was as well. So worried was I, that by the time we got back to Baker Street my headache had returned with a screaming vengeance.

"Watson, you need to take another pain reliever," Holmes remonstrated as we reached the sitting room.

"No."

"Watson!"

"I shall need to have all my faculties about me tonight, Holmes – I cannot chance being sluggish."

"It will have plenty of time to wear off, Watson!"

"I will not chance it, Holmes. And that is final," I said, ignoring his annoyed glare and trying to keep my temper in check. This confounded headache was putting me in a thoroughly bad temper.

"_Achoo_!"

"That is it, Holmes, you are taking another dose of medicine," I said warningly as he made a face after his violent sneeze.

"I most certainly am not!"

"You most certainly are!" I replied with vehemence, "do you know what will happen tonight if we are remaining hidden from these counterfeiters and suddenly you sneeze or erupt into a coughing fit?"

Holmes glared at me.

"Think about it, Holmes! I will not allow your obstinacy to destroy our cover tonight!" I exclaimed, trying to not sound as cross as I felt.

My companion glared at me again, but he did finally admit that I was correct – we could not chance his sneezing or coughing at an inopportune moment during the denouement of the case this evening.

But in consequence of losing an argument with me _and_ the added injury of having to choke down yet another dosage of my prescription, Holmes was in an extremely bad temper by the time young Wiggins returned to us at a little after five o'clock.

I winced, my head throbbing, as the lad came bounding up the steps to the sitting room, and Holmes sighed wearily, falling into his chair opposite mine.

"Come in, Wiggins," he called tiredly, resting his chin on his cupped hand.

I for the first time realized that I had not seen my companion sleep a night through since this case began other than the one night he had a fever – he must be exhausted. I was filled with a sharp pang of regret and remorse as I realized I should have paid more attention to his habits during this case and forced him to rest more.

"How's it goin', Mr. 'Olmes?" the boy asked, bouncing on the couch.

"Wiggins, Dr. Watson and I are going to be leaving here around seven-thirty. At that time, I want you to go to this address – make sure you are not seen, you understand? – and give our client this note," Holmes said, handing a folded paper to our little lieutenant.

"The bloke wot I was s'pposed ta be followin' earlier?"

"The same. Then I want you to immediately make yourself scarce; your job will be done for the night. I need you to make dead certain you are not observed, Wiggins, do you think you can do that for me?"

"Oi, Mr. 'Olmes, tha's me speciality," the lad said with a crooked grin.

Holmes's face broke into a tired smile.

"Good lad. Here is the rest of your wages, and remember – if you do not get that to my client, you will throw off the whole plan for the night. Don't fail me, Wiggins."

"I shan't, Mr. 'Olmes. Do y' need anythin' more from me, sir?"

"No, lad, that will be all. Now off with you – and do not forget, start for that address at precisely half-past seven."

"Right, sir. G'd evenin' to you both, gentl'men!"

Wiggins threw a sloppy salute in Holmes's direction and skipped off down the stairs, slamming the hall door a moment later.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, pulling my pipe out of my pocket and lighting it, trying to relax somewhat. We sat in silence for several minutes, and then my companion, surprisingly enough, was the first to break the stillness.

"Are you – are you nervous, Watson?" Holmes asked, drawing his knees up to his chest and huddling in his chair, uneasily staring at the fire.

I glanced at him, but he was not meeting my gaze.

"Yes, I am," I admitted, tossing the match into the grate, "very much so."

"Good," he said in a low voice, "I – I was afraid I was the only one."

I stared at him in surprise but could read nothing from his stoic features. But even I could deduce simply from his manner that he was - afraid? Afraid of losing, afraid that his first case since his return from the very brink of the grave was going to be an abysmal failure. He had to be as nervous as I was – more so, since it was _his_ career that we were trying to re-start.

Holmes sighed suddenly, sinking his chin upon his knees and speaking aloud in a quiet voice.

"What if I fail tonight, Watson?" he asked, and once again I sensed that elusive insecurity that I had heard in the cab last night.

"You shall _not_ fail, Holmes," I replied reassuringly, but I was doubting it myself and was afraid I was not very convincing.

"We have no way of knowing that, Watson. What if this case is a failure? What if something goes wrong? What if we do not capture the gang tonight and they get away instead and kill the girl? What if my conclusions have been totally wrong all along the road? What if I have been at fault all long, and this is not even the real motive behind the case?"

I was shocked at the desperation I could sense Holmes frantically reining in behind the words that were tumbling from his lips in a confused string of sentences. I had never heard him that unsure of himself before, that vulnerable, and the fact worried me not a little.

But I understood what he was feeling.

"Holmes, you never used to doubt your abilities," I said gently, "you never used to have this many misgivings about a case."

"This is not the same as it used to be, Watson – nothing is anymore!" he said, his voice turning to a mere whisper on the last phrase.

"Perhaps not," I returned softly, "but you still should not doubt yourself, Holmes."

"How can I not?" he asked, finally turning to face me, and I could see the uncertainty he was desperately fighting in his sharp, gaunt features, "I have not done this in three years! I no longer have that complete arrogant faith in my own abilities that I used to!"

"Well, I _have_," I said, looking him straight in his insecure eyes, "I have the same implicit amount of faith in you that I always have. And nothing will ever change that, Holmes. Failure or success, nothing will ever alter that fact."

I saw the gnawing fear leave his expression but not the uncertainty.

"Thank you," he said hoarsely, turning back to the fire and continuing to stare moodily at it.

I wished I could do something to help him, but I knew he had his own inner demons to fight, as I had been fighting mine. And there was not much either of us could do to help the other. This had not been as easy a road as we had thought it would be, and we could do nothing to change that.

My pipe had gone out, and I stood to place it on the mantelpiece. Glancing down, I saw Holmes's thin form was shaking slightly, and I knew he was so intensely nervous that he was closer to being actually frightened than he had ever been in all the years I had known him.

I walked over to my desk and took my journal, stuffing it in my pocket. Then I picked up the discarded blanket from the floor and once more draped it round my friend's shivering shoulders and rested a solid hand on his shoulder for a moment.

"You shall _not_ fail, Holmes," I said firmly, willing myself to believe my own words, "you rarely have, and I do not believe you will now. Do try to get your faith in yourself back, dear fellow."

He glanced up at me, and for the first time his mouth twitched in that quirky half-smile I was so used to seeing.

"I believe you have enough faith for both of us, Watson," he replied softly, "and that will do, I think."

I was satisfied with that answer, and I gripped his shoulder reassuringly once more before retiring to my room and leaving him with his thoughts.

A half-hour later, I re-entered the sitting room and stopped short, a smile crossing my face – Holmes had fallen fast asleep in his chair, wrapped up tightly in that blanket. His energetic mind had finally chosen the best possible method for dealing with conflicting inner turmoil and had simply shut down for a badly-needed rest.

I noiselessly shut the door and breathed a prayer of gratefulness; he was going to need that strength later in the night. And as I climbed the stairs back up to my room to try to rest a little myself, I hoped desperately that my faith in him would not be misplaced this evening.

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**_To be continued...only four chapters left!_**


	19. Chapter 19

I sat next to Sherlock Holmes in the cab and watched as he fidgeted tensely with the buttons on his overcoat, his cuff-links, his walking-stick, and anything else within reach of his nervously groping fingers.

Finally, as he picked at a loose thread on his coat for the tenth time in the last five minutes, I reached over and placed my gloved hand for a moment over his, stilling the nervous behavior.

"Holmes, it is going to be fine," I said directly, in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.

The hour's sleep he had had in the sitting room did not appear to have done much good, for the dark circles under his eyes only appeared to have grown darker as he looked a little ruefully at me.

He said nothing but leaned back, taking a deep breath; and I withdrew my hand and did so as well, for I was scarcely less nervous than he obviously was.

We had hailed a cab outside of our flat and directed the driver in a loud voice to the other side of London, and it was only after we were halfway there that Holmes directed the cabbie back toward Regent Street – we needed to ensure we were not being pursued.

It appeared that we were not; and indeed, the gang of counterfeiters we were after seemed to not know that we were aware of their movements. That was what we had been hoping, and indeed praying, for.

When we were a few streets away, Holmes stopped the cab and we emerged, paid the driver, and then he began to lead me through mews and stableyards, alleys and byways, always checking for pursuit, until we at last reached the alley behind the Regent Street branch of the Bank of England.

I had followed Holmes without a word as we walked – there was no need of conversation, so well did we each know what the other was doing. I trusted him to lead, and he trusted me to watch his back. That was simply all there was to it.

We finally reached our destination after we were sure of no shadowers, and in the alley we saw a dark figure looming up ahead.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes," my friend replied.

"Over here, sir. I have the key to this outer entrance," the officer replied, still whispering.

The man unlocked a back door that led off the alley and informed us that the corridor we found ourselves in connected with all the businesses in that row of houses, and that the door we wanted was the first one on the left, dead ahead of us.

"Sergeant, my client should be along shortly, so would you have the goodness to let him in as well? I shall leave that inner door unlocked for him; tell him to lock it upon his entrance," Holmes said quietly.

"Very good, Mr. Holmes," the man returned, shutting the outer door behind him.

"Holmes. Why would the gang not just use this back door to the place to carry the stuff in and out? Why do you believe there is another entrance?" I asked as Holmes began to pick the lock on the inner door.

"It would be too noisy, Watson – these corridor walls are incredibly thin. During the course of the several hours they would need to perform the task, someone in one of these houses or watchmen in the businesses would be certain to hear them hauling boxes in and out. Coins are quite heavy in bulk," he said, finally sighing with satisfaction as we heard the lock click back under the Master's touch.

Holmes gently pushed open the door, and we found ourselves at the end of one of the office corridors. As I shut the door behind me, a shadowy figure emerged from a doorway.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Gregson. Has anything happened yet?"

"No, sir. I have all my men in position, and we were only awaiting your arrival," the inspector said.

"Good. As soon as my client arrives, I believe we should lose no time in ascertaining where that other entrance may lie," Holmes told the man.

As if to corroborate his statement, the door behind me opened and I heard Eckerton's startled gasp as he nearly ran into me.

"Easy, lad," I said, closing the door and locking it once more.

"Mr. Holmes, I did exactly as you told me," the man said, looking at my companion nervously.

"Good. Then let us begin our search," Holmes replied, pulling out his lens and taking Gregson's dark lantern.

"Would you have the goodness to check on your men once more, Inspector. And warn them to make no noise whatsoever, except for the two posing as bank guards. Tell them to make no detours even if they hear untoward noises in the bank."

"Right, Mr. Holmes," the official replied, stalking off toward the other end of the bank after handing over to Holmes a passkey for all the offices.

I held the lantern while Holmes began to methodically search for the entrance he believed to be under the stone floor somewhere. Each floor tile was summarily checked for dust disturbance or cracks in the mortar.

"Holmes, why can you not just tap on the floor and listen for hollowness?" I whispered.

"Because they may be down there as we speak, and that would give the show away," he returned, a little nettled that he was unable to do as I had suggested.

It was a long, painstaking process, searching all those offices, and after one side of the hallway Holmes straightened up with a moan, stretching his cramped muscles.

"Nothing, no traces whatsoever," he muttered.

I glanced at my watch – it was nearing nine o'clock.

"We do not have much time, Holmes," I whispered.

"What time is it?"

"Ten of."

I heard a muffled curse. Eckerton glanced at me, a slight amusement in his otherwise nervous face. Just then, we heard Gregson returning.

"Everything is in readiness, Holmes. Have you found traces of a tunnel?"

"No, none. But really, that is not surprising. They would probably wait until everyone had left the bank to perform the last touches to the entrance, wherever it may be," Holmes said, his eyes darting from side to side.

"Then what shall we do?"

"We must hide, now," Holmes said suddenly, "for we have no more time to continue looking. They cannot hear any unusual movement or they will not walk into the trap."

"Hide where?"

"Inspector, you should be in the lobby. Hide behind the counters, and do nothing until you hear my police whistle. Is that clear?"

"Now look here, Holmes –"

"There is no time to argue, Inspector!" Holmes hissed impatiently, "now move along!"

Growling under his breath about 'pompous amateurs', the policeman shuffled off down the hall.

"Now, Watson, Eckerton. Since boxes of coins and so on are by no means easy to carry, I should think that the gang would appropriate one of the offices closest to the vault – perhaps even your own, Eckerton. We shall hide in there," Holmes said.

Eckerton nodded, walking ahead of us down the hall and opening the door with his own key.

Once inside, Holmes motioned for absolute quiet. And when he heard nothing, he pulled our client and me close to him and spoke in such a low whisper that we could barely hear.

"Eckerton, that window – does it look out upon the street or an outside corridor?"

"Regent Street, Mr. Holmes. In full view of everything."

"They shall not come in that way, then. I want you to hide there behind the curtains, Eckerton."

"Yes, sir."

"Make no moves, no sounds, no matter what you hear or see, is that clear?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Holmes."

The young man scuttled off to take his position behind his curtains, leaving me standing with Holmes in the middle of the room. The shade had been put back over the dark lantern, and the room was shadowed and ghostly.

"I have a bad feeling about this, Watson," Holmes whispered nervously, looking round him.

"That is just nerves, Holmes," I returned, although I had much the same feeling.

"Perhaps. Now, Watson. To the door. I doubt that they will come in this particular office, but if you hear any noises, dart behind the curtains or under the desk, whichever you can get to first. Do you understand?"

"Yes," I whispered.

We took up our positions on either side of the office door, watching out in the corridor for any signs of light and listening for any signs of movement. I grew weary of standing after a half hour and leaned tiredly on the doorframe, wishing to heaven that my head would stop its pounding.

Holmes fidgeted nervously, his fingertips drumming a silent tattoo on the wooden doorframe, as precious time went by and there was no sign of anything happening outside. Once we both stiffened as we heard footsteps – but it was only the guard passing the doors, trying each to see they were locked.

I had one hand on my revolver and the other massaging my throbbing head, leaning against the doorframe, when suddenly –

Holmes grasped my arm in a vise-like grip as he heard it as well. A soft thump from the office next to us.

The counterfeiters had arrived.

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**_TBC - thanks for reading!_**


	20. Chapter 20

The office next to us? I looked at Holmes as there was another thud. He noiselessly tiptoed over to the wall, pressing his ear up against it for several seconds. Then he came back to me, moving as quietly as a cat upon the stone floor.

"They are in there, all right," he whispered, so low that I could barely hear him, "now we must give them time to commit themselves before we act."

I swallowed hard, tamping down on my growing unease, and pulled my revolver from my pocket. Holmes pushed me out of the line of vision of the glass window in our client's office door and stood on the other side, facing me. I could not see his face in the darkness, but I could hear his rapid breathing as the tense moments passed.

We could hear various noises from the other room, and I wondered how in the world they had got in there and what they were doing now.

Suddenly I stiffened as I heard footsteps once more in the hall – the guard was making another round. It took them approximately twenty minutes between rounds, I had figured. The noise in the other room ceased on the instant, and we could hear the guard trying all the doorknobs.

He reached our door, turned the locked knob, and moved on.

And as soon as the footsteps had died away, the noises next door started up again. The counterfeiters had calculated the time between guards as well, probably. I could hear Holmes's nervous breathing quicken as we heard thuds from the next room and a few muffled voices. Then we heard a soft creak as the door opened, and I shrank back away form the glass.

Holmes waited until the passing footsteps had gone and then peeked warily out the glass. After a moment he stepped noiselessly over to me.

"Three of them, heading for the vault," he whispered almost noiselessly.

"What now?" I returned, scarcely breathing.

"Wait until they bring the currency back. Then we will move in on them. Take this," he whispered, and I felt a police whistle pressed into my hand, "and as soon as we have them surprised, blow it."

"Right," I breathed.

Holmes's hand on my arm was quivering with suppressed excitement or nervousness, I did not know which, and I swallowed hard, for I was extremely tense myself. This was the first time we had done this in three years, not counting waiting for Moran in the Empty House – but this was different.

This was not a personal vendetta as that had been, and there would be severe consequences if something went wrong, consequences that would affect others as well as ourselves. I had forgotten the weight of that responsibility – we had always carried it in our cases, but it had been so long that I had forgotten what it felt like.

And I knew Holmes was feeling twice the responsibility I was, and even more. This had to work, it simply had to.

I stiffened suddenly as I heard the footsteps returning from the direction of the vault, and Holmes's hand became so tight I thought my arm would go numb. They passed our door, moving very slowly – carrying the weight of boxes, I supposed. Then there was again a soft creak as the office next door closed quietly, and for a moment all was still. They were listening for any pursuit.

Then an instant later we could hear a small clink and another thump. Holmes tugged on my arm – it was time to move.

I had forgotten all about Eckerton until Holmes tiptoed over to the curtains and fetched him, motioning him to be silent. Holmes grasped the dark lantern tightly and then noiselessly began to slowly, slowly, very slowly turn the doorknob of Eckerton's office.

I doubted that the counterfeiters could have heard us, with the activity that appeared to be going on in the next office, but we moved stealthily anyway. Holmes crept noiselessly up to the other door and peeked very cautiously into the room, pushing me back against the wall. I did the same to Eckerton.

For a moment Holmes peered into the room, and then he signaled to me to have my gun in readiness. He glanced back at me, and I nodded, taking a deep breath and tensing expectantly.

Then he without warning kicked the office door open and burst inside, shining the lantern and suddenly illuminating the scene. I was close at his heels, training my revolver on the group of men within the room.

There were six of them, and they all blinked in the sudden glare of the unshaded lantern. I hastily blew a shrill blast on the police whistle I held in my left hand, not taking my eyes off the men with the gun held firmly in my right.

"Make no sudden moves, gentlemen," Holmes barked, his voice tight with excitement and triumph. "Drop those weapons _and_ those coins and kindly raise your hands."

As the men inside the room cursed violently and stood to their feet, raising their hands above their heads, I was able to see the entire scene.

There was a very neat hole in the stone floor, directly under the window leading to the street, where the sidewalk was being repaired. Of course! There was probably a manhole entrance just outside there, and it had already made for a tunnel of sorts. It had been the work of only a few hours to further tunnel into the office.

There was a square stone missing from the floor, and a bucket of ready-to-mix stone mortar that would be used to secure the tile back into place upon their exit. Several boxes were sitting on the floor of the office, and the open one was full of what looked to be perfectly genuine golden sovereigns.

But I stopped my gazing around as one man, apparently the leader, shifted position in front of me.

"I would not do that if I were you," I said levelly, pointing my revolver at the man's heart.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man spat viciously. "Why the devil didn't you stay dead?"

Holmes smiled, his normal self-assurance finally coming to the front with the knowledge that we had got the men in the counterfeiting ring. All had gone as predicted, and he was now relaxing in that knowledge of victory.

Behind me I heard running footsteps and Eckerton moved behind me instead of beside me to allow the police passage.

"Here you are, Gregson, the whole gang," Holmes stated, his cold voice ringing with triumphant clarity, indicating the half-dozen glowering men standing defensively in the midst of the room.

"Well, I'll be blowed," the man gasped, seeing the money on the floor and the angry men in front of him.

The inspector and his men moved into the room to apprehend the gang of counterfeiters, and Holmes and I scooted over to the side to allow them entrance.

But then, so suddenly it took even Holmes by surprise, the man who had snarled at us a moment ago suddenly made a running leap for the hole in the floor – and dropped out of sight before we could react!

"After him, Watson!" Holmes cried, his triumph rudely shattered by this audacious and unexpected move. He snatched the lantern and dropped through the hole himself before I could say anything.

Gregson was shouting something at me as I dashed after my friend.

"No time," I called back, "he's going after the girl! Get these men out of here, Gregson, and then try to locate us! Eckerton, move!"

I took a fearful look into the yawning hole, not knowing how far of a drop it was, and then got a grip on myself and allowed my body to fall limply.

It was only a distance of perhaps six or seven feet, however. And not two seconds later, I heard a thud as Eckerton landed beside me.

"Doctor, what –"

"Come on!" I cried, seeing Holmes's lantern bobbing up and down, already nearly vanishing into the darkness.

I took off at a dead run in the dark, praying I would not run into anything. As I ran, I wondered where we were – did those tunnels and manhole covers run into the London sewers? If so, we had better stick close to that chap or he could easily lose us.

Not to mention the fact that I had no desire to run blindly through the London sewer system - Holmes and I had had to do that once before, and the mere remembrance still was sufficient to nauseate me.

Behind me, I could hear our client's labored breathing – I imagined the poor chap did not get much exercise of this sort, being an accountant in a bank.

The light appeared to be getting just a trifle closer, but I knew there would be no possible way I could catch up with Holmes; he was the fastest sprinter I had ever seen. But I kept on gamely, trying to ignore the pain that was starting to form in my leg at the unexpected strenuous exercise.

I nearly yelped when the light vanished suddenly – what had happened? I had not heard a shout. Had Holmes been injured? Had the light just run out? What had happened?

I was wondering frantically what had happened when suddenly I found out. The hard way.

I ran straight into a stone wall, slamming into it with such force that I cried out with the agonizing pain, sliding to the ground.

"Eckerton, stop!" I gasped, holding my aching head where it had struck the stone.

I heard scuffling, and then the striking of a match.

"Oh, Doctor!" the man gasped, looking at me, and I knew I must have a lump already forming on my head.

It hurt like the devil, but I was not dizzy; thankfully that indicated an absence of a concussion. I staggered to my feet and pointed to the bend in the tunnel – we could once again see the bobbing light.

The match spluttered and went out, casting us into darkness once more, and Eckerton fumbled in the dark for my elbow.

"Are you all right, Doctor?" he panted as we continued to run, "that looked like a nasty bump!"

"It was not the most pleasant thing in the world," I gasped, grateful for the young man's support as we kept running blindly, following that bobbing light ahead of us – we were never going to catch up! – "but I have seen worse."

"Do you really – think – that he – is heading – after Annie?" our client gasped between pants.

"Yes," I said shortly, "now save – your breath – who knows how far – we shall have - to run!"

And as the throbbing in my head began to rise to a pounding crescendo, I fervently prayed it would not be much farther. I was not sure how much longer I could keep up this pace.

But if I did not keep it up, Holmes would be left to face the man alone, without a weapon.

I would not let that happen – I would run until I passed out first.

Hopefully it would not come to that.

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**_TBC..._**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Okay, shameless plug: I'm trying to get this done tonight because _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ and I are starting a new fic together. So, anyhow, don't get used to getting six chapters in one day!**

* * *

We had been running now for several minutes, and both my strength and that of our poor client was rapidly flagging. In addition to being out of breath, my headache had increased tenfold by my unexpected contact with that stone wall.

"Doctor – I – I don't think – I can run - much farther," Eckerton gasped, his sedentary lifestyle beginning to show.

I felt the same way, but I had the added adrenaline rush of the realization that I had to go on or else abandon Holmes to facing off that man alone – and who knew where they were headed. There could be a dozen more men waiting with the Stewart girl at the other end of this quest, for all we knew.

"You must – keep going," I panted, "your fiancée's life – may depend – upon our catching up with them!"

Eckerton took a deep breath and said nothing, only kept running with me.

The darkness was seeming to swallow us up as we staggered onward, seeming to stretch on and on, forever…

Suddenly the light disappeared once again, and this time I warily slowed my pace and put my arms out in front of me as I trotted. Soon I ran into the wall with a grunt, and turned to the left to see the lantern still bobbing ahead of us.

But I thought it might be just a trifle closer this time; of course, the gang member and Holmes would have to be growing tired as well. We might catch them yet.

I mentioned as much to Eckerton, and we redoubled our efforts, finally at long last catching our second winds.

Suddenly in the dark I stumbled over a rock and fell, slamming hard into the stone floor of the tunnel with a moan of pain as the motion jarred my throbbing head.

Eckerton frantically fumbled in the darkness for my arm and pulled me back to my feet, and we began to run again, his hand on my arm for support, as I was beginning to limp from the exertions and the unusual strain placed so suddenly upon my bad leg. And I was once again glad that the young fellow was with me.

We were indeed catching up with the light ahead of us, and now ahead of Holmes's lantern I could see a smaller lantern trained upon the floor of the tunnel – the counterfeiter was carrying it. We really were gaining on them.

Eckerton saw that we were as well, and we kept on without saying a word, both of us gasping for breath now. Such a stitch was forming in my side that between that and the headache, I was in a considerable amount of pain, and every step brought fresh agony.

But we were gaining on the lights – the men ahead of us must be slowing down. I breathed a prayer of gratefulness as we drew ever nearer, feeling my remaining energy flagging with an appalling rapidity.

Now I could see the vague outline of my friend as his pounding footsteps and hard breathing became audible as we gradually closed the distance between us.

Holmes must have heard us behind him, for suddenly the light stopped bobbing and then came back toward us with great rapidity.

"Watson! That you?"

"Yes," I gasped, gladdened beyond words for the chance to stop for even a moment and rest.

"Are you all right?" even in the darkness he could tell something was wrong.

"I am fine – I just – ran into – that first wall – back there," I gasped as he came up close to us and shone the lantern towards us.

"Good Lord, Watson!" he gasped, upon seeing Eckerton supporting me.

"Keep going, Holmes!" I snapped breathlessly, seeing the tiny light ahead of us starting to move faster.

Holmes handed the dark lantern to Eckerton and ordered him to go ahead of us with it. Then he took my arm and told me to lean on him as we took off again at a dead run, following the counterfeiter.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked as we went on.

"Yes. We are – rather lucky – he is not – shooting at us," I gasped, knowing we made excellent targets with that lantern.

"Rather," my friend agreed, tightening his grip protectively as he realized I was limping.

"How much further do you think he will go?" Eckerton called back softly.

"I cannot imagine it being much farther. We have been at this for nearly five minutes," Holmes replied, taking a deep breath.

"That is all?" I gasped incredulously, suddenly clutching Holmes's arm instinctively as a stab of pain shot through my head.

"What's the matter?" he asked sharply.

"Nothing," I replied, trying to catch a deep breath.

"Right turn," Eckerton called over his shoulder.

The stitch in my side was subsiding slightly now, but my intense headache was not. I knew I for one would not be able to keep this chase up much longer. But then suddenly the light ahead of us stopped and started moving upward.

"Stop, Eckerton!" Holmes called softly. Eckerton halted, and Holmes flipped the shield down on the lantern.

I was clinging to Holmes's arm to keep myself upright at this point, and I was more than happy to halt and try to catch a breath, trying to ignore the throbbing in my head. My shallow breathing and Eckerton's soft gasps were the only sounds that we heard as that small light moved upward, finally disappearing.

As soon as it had, Holmes propelled me and Eckerton forward, flashing the lantern once more to reveal a ladder going straight up out of the tunnel. Holmes pushed Eckerton upward and then followed with the lantern. I took a deep breath and then followed, trying to not think about how badly my head was pounding.

I heard a creaking as a wooden trapdoor was opened, and Holmes's long legs disappeared above me. I climbed the last few rungs and he gave me a hand out of the tunnel, closing the trap as quietly as possible.

I looked round, gasping for breath, and saw that we were in a house – apparently in a den or study. The trapdoor we had emerged form was concealed very cleverly by a large rug attached to the wooden floor.

"He has to know that we're here," Holmes said intensely, hauling me to my feet and motioning to Eckerton, "so we have no time to be lost. We have to stop him before he reaches Miss Stewart."

Our client's face went white as a sheet, but he swallowed hard and followed Holmes and me as we quickly made our way into the hall. A tall staircase loomed above us, and we could hear noises from above – then suddenly a woman's high-pitched scream rent the air.

"Annie!" Eckerton gasped, his face turning whiter still.

Holmes bolted for the stairs, taking them three at a time, and I was close on his heels, trying desperately to yank my revolver out of my pocket as we sprinted up the steps. I had not yet got it out when Holmes skidded to a stop in a bedroom doorway, a sharp horrified intake of breath escaping his lips.

I nearly ran into his back as he halted, and I stared over his shoulder; and then my own breath seemed to stop.

"Do come in, Holmes," the man said, motioning us in with a large pistol, "I have been waiting for you. You too, Doctor. And your client as well. Dear me, you all three decided to chase after me?"

Holmes and I slowly entered the room, followed by Eckerton. The girl I recognized from our client's photograph as Anne Stewart was sitting in a corner of the room on the floor, bound hand and foot, her lovely face filled with fright at the sight of this man holding a large gun on her fiancé and us.

"Annie!"

"James," the girl said in a trembling voice.

"How touching," the counterfeiter said in false sympathy.

Eckerton's eyes flashed with a fire I did not know he possessed as he saw his fiancée, and to my astonishment he started across the room toward her.

I held my breath as the man watched him, afraid he was going to shoot our client right there, but the counterfeiter evidently decided it was not worth the effort, for he turned his attentions to Holmes and me.

"How did you find out about us, Holmes?" the man asked, shutting the bedroom door behind us and forcing us into the middle of the room. I could hear Eckerton speaking to the girl in a soothing voice, and I began to try desperately to think of a way out of this mess.

"Simplicity itself," Holmes said, acting for all the world as if there were not a gun pointed at his heart, "it was a logical chain of deductions. Starting with the premise that the connection among the three disappearances was that the girls' fiancés all worked in banks."

"Very good, Holmes," the man said mockingly.

"By the way, how did you get the girls off the trains?"

"Chloroform," the man said, "and then heavy veils and ulsters. No one even looked twice at us."

I glance back at Eckerton, who had untied and was now holding his frightened fiancée and looking at me questioningly. I shook my head at the man, telling him not to try anything.

"Ah. And I suppose you kept the other two girls drugged until their fiancés did not cooperate – then you killed them in cold blood," Holmes spat, with a venom I had not heard from him in quite a while.

"Exactly," the man said, not a bit perturbed by Holmes's anger. The man looked at us both and then leveled the gun at Holmes's head without hesitation.

My breath caught in my throat. This man had killed two helpless, defenseless, drugged girls in cold blood; there was no reason why he would not kill Holmes (and myself) without hesitation. I would not allow that to happen.

I could not lose Holmes again, less than three weeks after getting him back from the dead.

I could not survive a second loss like that.

So I would die in an effort to prevent it this time.

* * *

**_Oooooh, evil, evil cliffhanger! _**

**_-ducks behind bulletproof computer screen-_**

**_To be concluded!_**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Here you are, people, last chapter! Thanks for sticking with it so far! And thanks for the death threats - they made my day!**

**_KCS_**

* * *

As the counterfeiter raised the gun and pointed it at Holmes's head, I saw my friend's face blanche even paler than before. This man was a cold-blooded murderer of helpless girls; he would have no compunction about shooting us where we stood. 

"I really thought we were going to get away with the whole thing, Holmes," the man said, "I had no idea you were so close upon us. How you found out, I'll never know."

Holmes said nothing, but I could tell by his eyes and the way they nervously darted back and forth that he was desperately trying to think of some plan.

And I could tell by his thinly veiled expression of despair that he was not having any luck.

"Anyhow, Holmes, I have no doubt that the police will shortly be following you here, so I must lose no time in completing this mission that you so rudely interrupted," the man said, pulling back the hammer of the gun with a deadly click.

I was nearly shaking with fright – he was going to shoot Holmes right there, in front of my very eyes!

I could not, I _would_ not watch that. If I only had time to think of something!

But unlike most criminals, this man wasted no time in melodramatic monologues before he shot. He took one step backward, carefully aimed the gun, leveled it –

and fired.

And once again, as I had been doing all through this case, I acted purely on instinct, not on rational thought. All I could think about was the fact that I would not allow Holmes to be killed when I had just gotten him back from the very grave. In consequence, my emotions took over instead of my brain, and I acted without thinking.

I jumped between Holmes and the pistol, grabbing frantically for the man's gun hand.

My groping fingers caught his arm and shoved upward only just in time. The bullet imbedded itself in the ceiling with a shower of dust and plaster. The first feeling I had was that of relief – the second, of desperation as the man twisted viciously out of my grip.

My momentary relief was suddenly shattered with force as I felt a shooting, searing pain in the side of my head – the barrel of the counterfeiter's gun had made direct contact with my head injury, and the force of the blow sent me reeling to a crashing heap upon the ground.

The throbbing in my head had just increased a hundredfold, and I was growing dizzy, vaguely sensing a good deal of warm blood running down the side of my face – the stitches must have come open.

I was distantly aware of Holmes's frightened voice crying my name in a tone of absolute terror, but I was unable to answer him, concentrating all my energy on remaining at least semi-conscious.

"Stupid fool," I heard the counterfeiter growl, "wasted a perfectly good bullet!"

I cracked open one eye and saw that the man was standing with his back toward me. Neither he nor Holmes could see me from that angle, and they would not know that I was conscious. I quickly closed my eyes again, my mind desperately fumbling for a plan.

"You will pay for this, and pay dearly," I heard Holmes say in a low voice, deep with pain and grief and hatred.

"I think not, Holmes. Now get over there with your precious client and the girl – I do not have much time and I want to get this over with quickly. You three first, then that stupid fool over there."

I could hear the frightened sobs of the woman and Eckerton's rapid scared breathing as I felt the vibrations on the floor of Holmes's backing away towards them.

I cracked an eye open once more. Holmes was standing beside Eckerton, his face dead pale, and our client was holding his fiancée tightly – I did not know which of the young people looked more scared.

A fresh wave of nausea swept over me as blood continued to pour down my face from my temple, and I took a long breath, trying to steady my nerves.

_Wait_.

There was one chance.

I had fallen upon my left side.

My gun was still in my right jacket pocket.

I began to slowly, silently move my hand to my pocket, keeping an eye on the others. The counterfeiter had stepped forward and was now blocking me from the other three's view, so I was able to pull out my revolver without anyone noticing.

As the counterfeiter once again raised his pistol to point it directly at point-blank range at Holmes's head, I silently raised myself on my left elbow, shaking the hot blood out of my vision, and sighted my own weapon.

I could not miss.

I could not _afford_ to miss.

There was a click as the man cocked his gun, and then I waited no longer. I sighted, cocked, and fired, all in the space of one instant. The girl screamed in fright.

And the counterfeiter dropped without a sound, blood pouring from the wound in the back of his head.

I had stayed on my elbow long enough to make sure the man had fallen before slumping back to the hard floor, trying to control the nausea and dizziness from the blood that was dripping down my face.

"Watson. Watson! Can – can you hear me?" I heard Holmes's frantic, terrified voice as he fell to his knees beside me on the floor.

I opened my eyes with an effort and looked at his pale, scared face – and perceived that he was shaking worse than I.

In an instant Holmes was cradling my head with his left arm, desperately pressing his handkerchief to the wound at my temple with his right, trying frantically to stem the blood flow.

"Yes, old chap, you got him," he answered gently my questioning look, "dead center."

"Good," I gasped, fighting down a wave of nausea.

"Eckerton! I need help here!" Holmes said, his voice trembling as he saw the amount of blood that was already on the floor.

I tried to explain to him that head injuries always involve a deal of blood and that pressing a compress directly onto a head wound is _not_ the best course of action, but he was too distraught to listen to me, and I could feel the arm that was supporting my head shaking with fright as Eckerton gave him his handkerchief as well and then ran down the stairs to call the police.

As Holmes pressed the second handkerchief to the gash in my head, I winced with the pain and closed my eyes, going limp as an attack of dizziness assailed me.

"Watson!?" Holmes's voice was close to panic now.

I sighed, reopening my eyes to look at him.

"Holmes. For heaven's sake, RELAX!" I gasped, trying to focus my blurred vision on his worried face.

He stared at me, his features frozen for a moment, and then to my surprise his arms tightened impulsively around me and he gave me a rigid smile, his grey eyes blinking with a suspiciously rapid movement.

Eckerton came dashing back up to the room, and a moment later the room was invaded by two bobbies from the street and messages were sent to Scotland Yard. Eckerton was sitting on the floor, holding the poor girl, who was still shaking, when Gregson arrived about fifteen minutes later.

He stopped short, seeing Holmes gently tying a makeshift bandage around my head, the dead counterfeiter across the room, and the missing girl safely in the arms of her fiancé, and his jaw dropped so comically I should have laughed if I had not been feeling so lightheaded from the blood loss.

Holmes put an arm round my back and helped me to sit up while explaining what had happened to Gregson. That sudden movement was an extremely bad idea, for I immediately was attacked by dizziness and almost collapsed right into Holmes's arms.

Naturally, I frightened him half to death and had to spend the next five minutes in assuring him I was fine, that I just needed to take things gradually.

Meanwhile, Gregson had given orders and had the body taken outside to a waiting wagon. He was now asking the Stewart girl a few questions with her fiancé protectively looking on.

"Watson – do you think you can stand?" Holmes asked with concern.

"I'm willing to give it a shot," I said dubiously, rubbing absently at the makeshift bandage on my head.

"Don't touch that, Watson!" Holmes snapped worriedly.

I glared weakly at him, and he smiled at my feeble attempt at defiance. Then he slung my arm around his thin shoulders and helped me to my feet, catching me when my legs threatened to give out and supporting nearly all my weight until the fit of dizziness passed.

I was breathing hard with the effort by the time I was able to stand upright, and Holmes lost no time in getting me outside to a cab and heading for the nearest hospital to have the stitches put back in my head, completely and pointedly ignoring Gregson's vociferous protests about leaving the scene before he had a chance to talk to us.

Forty-five minutes and twelve stitches later, Holmes had solicitously settled me in front of a cozy fire in our sitting room, fussing over me as if I had been mortally wounded. Although it might have been annoying coming from anyone else, such affectionate attention was a rare occurrence from my comrade and as such I welcomed it.

He had just spread a blanket over me – even though the fire was nearly an inferno! – when the bell rang; and as it was after midnight, Mrs. Hudson was no longer up. Throwing me an apologetic glance, he jumped for the stairs and I heard a murmur of voices in the hall.

A moment later, the figures of our client and his lovely fiancée were ushered into the room. I made to rise, and the lady waved me graciously back to my position.

"Please, Doctor, do not try to get up," she said, her voice quiet and soft. It was of little wonder that our young client was very obviously deep in love with the charming girl.

"We came by to thank you both, gentlemen," Eckerton said, "we did not have a chance to there at the house because of that confounded inspector and all his questions. I told Annie before I was going to take her home we were going to come by here and thank the two of you."

"I never dreamed I would be found, Mr. Holmes," the girl said, looking at my friend with a deep gratefulness.

"Well, madam, I wish I could claim credit for your rescue but I cannot," Holmes said, "for I would have been killed right there in that house if it had not been for Watson here."

"Luck," I protested, "pure luck, that I had that gun still in my pocket."

"Not luck, Doctor. Providence," the girl said softly, "and I do thank you very much."

"We both do," Eckerton said, drawing the woman protectively closer to him, "we shall forever be in your debt, gentlemen."

Holmes bowed and I nodded, and I was exceedingly glad we had brought that lovely couple back together – a happy ending to a rather sordid case.

"We shall let you both rest now," Eckerton said, "thank you again, Mr. Holmes. No, no, please, we can find our own way out. Good night."

Holmes showed the pair to the door and shut it after them.

"What a lovely couple," I remarked, gingerly settling back upon the couch.

Holmes snorted.

"Three years has not changed that incurable romantic streak in you, Watson," he said, walking over to the mantelpiece and leaning on it, looking at me.

I grinned at him, a little tiredly.

"Oh, come now, Holmes. You have to admit that it is quite a happy ending to a case that we were afraid was not going to be very happy after all," I said.

I saw some unusual emotion flash over Holmes's expressive face, and he sighed and pulled up a chair beside my couch.

"I told you that you were worrying too much about the case, Holmes – you see, you did _not_ fail, even though you were afraid you would," I said to him, not liking the uncertainty I still saw in his eyes.

"I _did_ fail, Watson," he said quietly, his eyes downcast, "completely, absolutely, and utterly failed."

"No, you did not!" I exclaimed, wincing as my vehement tone jolted my headache even more, "that couple is now happily back together and Gregson has the whole counterfeiting gang in jail save that one man. And you foiled a devious scheme to flood the city with counterfeit coins."

"That changes nothing," Holmes said quietly, "the fact remains that I failed. I would have been killed then and there, if you had not jumped in front of me in that bedroom. And then again a few minutes later when he had us cornered. My slowness could have killed us all – could have killed _you_, Watson – and that was what I have been so afraid of!"

Holmes's voice shook on the last statement, and he refused to lift his eyes to mine.

I was startled at his words – he had never, ever been that open with me before his absence. He had most definitely changed a good deal if he would admit such sentiments to me.

"Holmes, look at me."

He still refused.

"Holmes, you did _not_ fail," I said earnestly.

This time he looked up at me incredulously.

"Watson, you saved my life yet again – I did nothing. He would have shot me in the head; I really thought he was going to, when you jumped in between us," he said, his voice still unsteady, "I was helpless, I could do absolutely nothing to stop it! I nearly lost the entire case through my own stupidity and my utter lack of nerve!"

I tried to remonstrate, but I could see that now he had started he could not stop the flow of words. And as a doctor, I knew he needed to release these feelings or he would have a meltdown, similar to what I had been feeling like earlier in the week.

"Watson, I – I cannot do this for the rest of my life!" he went on, his voice filled with dread and insecurity, "I am not capable of resuming this profession! I cannot drop back into the investigative scene if I continue to make blunders as I did tonight! I am obviously not the man I was three years ago!"

"No, you are not," I replied emphatically, turning over and looking him directly in the face.

He looked at me with a gaze of utter defeat.

"You are _not_ the man you were three years ago, Holmes," I said slowly, "because the man I knew three years ago would have died rather than share such thoughts with another living soul. The Sherlock Holmes I used to know would never have admitted, to me or to anyone else, that he was less than superhuman."

He stared at me, and I smiled at him.

"Change is not always a bad thing, Holmes," I said quietly, "and you did _not_ fail tonight."

"But –"

"You did not fail, old chap, because – because we are a team now. You are no longer alone in these battles you choose to fight against evil. It does not matter which of us fires the fatal shot that kills the final enemy and closes the case!" I said intensely, "because that is the path we have chosen to take, together – you told me yourself earlier, that we would get through this _together_. Why are you able to extend help to me but unable to accept it yourself?"

Holmes's intense grey eyes looked at me as if he were gazing straight into my soul, and perhaps he was. For, a moment later, the deep disturbing uncertainty that had so plagued him began to slowly dissipate, and it was replaced by a sudden warmth as his tense face relaxed.

"How does a man get to be so wise in three years, Watson?" he asked at last, a fraction of the old twinkle coming back into his tired eyes.

"One of the great mysteries of life, Holmes, ranking right up there with how a man can have such a phobia about taking cough syrup," I muttered, leaning back wearily, my mind and emotions completely spent by the night's events. My head was throbbing painfully, to boot.

Holmes's laugh was painful to my head but soothing to my mind – laughter was the best medicine in the world, I well knew, and I was glad he could find some amusement to take his mind off this case.

I closed my eyes in exhaustion, grimacing at the pain in my skull and trying to shift to a less painful position. I felt Holmes gently pull the blanket up and tuck it in around me and sensed rather than saw him turn down the gas.

Finally cracking an eye open, I watched him grab his pipe, light it, and then seat himself before the fire, gazing thoughtfully at the dancing flames as if trying to read in them the solution to his inner struggles. Then I closed my eyes once again.

We had come quite a long way since the inception of this case, and we had done more serious soul-searching than either of us would have liked. We had the demons of our pasts to face as well as those that might arise in the future.

But, as I had said to Holmes just now, we were not alone any longer to face our problems. And if we could withstand the demons our own minds conjured up to throw in our paths, then I knew we could weather any storms that outsiders might cast at us.

And as my thoughts began to muddle together when the pain reliever began to take its calming effect, and as I sensed Holmes bending over me to see that I was all right and felt him gently checking the bandage on my head, I finally, for the first time, felt a sensation that I had not felt yet since my return to Baker Street.

I was home.

* * *

**_Finis! Thanks for reading - if you enjoyed, please tell me!_**


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